


House of Sanctuary

by Justine_Harker



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dick Jokes, Gothic, Hurt, M/M, Punk, Rewrite, Slow Burn, tattooed sebastian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justine_Harker/pseuds/Justine_Harker
Summary: Ciel Phantomhive arrives in a new city, fresh from a bad break up and a tragic accident, looking to begin a new life. Sebastian Michaelis is a tattoo artist with a dark past that seems to haunt him no matter where he goes. Will a new romance be what they both need?





	1. Save Yourself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [St_Ciel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/St_Ciel/gifts).



“Are you sure you have everything?” The officer stood on the sidewalk, his arms crossed over his thick chest as he watched me drag the last duffle bag full of my clothes down the steps of my apartment building. I tossed the bag down into the snow and fumbled to get the keys out of my pocket.

“Yeah, just these three bags.”

“Son, I can’t keep coming out here every time you get into a fight with your boyfriend.”

“No, this is it. I’m not coming back.” I took the apartment key off my keyring and handed it to the officer. “Thanks for waiting with me,” I said.

“I hate to see domestic violence,” was what he said, but the unfinished sentiment was “ _even if it is between fags._ ”

“Just the same, I appreciate it.”

“Your cab is here,” he nodded his shaved head and mirrored glasses towards the car that slowed to a careful stop in the slush. The boot of the car popped open and a friendly older man hopped out and began to scoop up my bags from the curb.

“Take this kid to the airport, okay?” The cabby nodded to the officer and then smiled at me. I didn’t bother to look back at the apartment building as we drove away. I knew he would be watching me, all blond hair and sharp blue eyes. He ignored me as I packed my things and refused to speak while the officer was in the apartment, but I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist watching me go.

He didn’t think I’d do it, I thought as we drove in silence to the airport. He probably still thought I would come back. Maybe not today, but before the weekend was out, he expected me to slink back home and endure whatever punishment he invented for me. What he didn’t know was something inside of me had broken and I no longer felt a stifling panic at the thought of being without him. What I felt was relief. Numb, but sweet and beautiful relief.

“Are you alright?” the driver asked. I looked up to see he was watching me in the rearview mirror. My face was still half covered by bandages and I knew I looked like living death.

“Yeah,” I managed, still amazed I could sink into this new numbness and not feel anything at all.

“You look like you’ve been through hell.”

What can you say to a comment like that? Rather than respond I merely fixed my good eye out the window and watched the winter landscape speed past until the car pulled up at the terminal.

“Safe travels,” the driver said as he set my bags down on the curb. I tried to hand him money but he insisted the ride was already taken care of. So, I stood at the entrance of Montreal-Trudeau with travelers moving past me like water around a rock sat stubbornly in a stream. The world was still spinning. The clock was still ticking. _You need to check in and get on a plane, Ciel._

I shook myself and picked up my things, squaring my shoulders and setting boots to the pavement with purpose.

…

“Ciel, the American!” my aunt exclaimed as I finally emerged from customs at Logan Airport. Her hair was offensively red, as was her wool jacket, but she smelled like Channel as she pulled me into her arms and crushed my face to her chest.

“Christ woman, can’t you see I’m injured?”

“Yes, my grim child, I know. I have already booked you with my plastic surgeon for Monday morning. Don’t worry. You have your father’s handsome face and your mother’s good genes, you’ll be just fine. Just fine!”

Somehow, Aunt Ann managed to get me and my belongings into her BMW and we were off through the outskirts of Boston. It was dark and she drove like her ass was on fire. The tiny flecks of snow that bounced off the windscreen reminded me of stars.

“I’m really glad you decided to come here, Ciel. I’ve missed you. I worried.”

“I know.”

“Since your parents…” the rest of the sentence hung in the air much like the officer’s comment earlier that afternoon.

“Since they died,” I finished for her.

“Yes.” She went quiet for the rest of the journey and said very little even as we arrived at her townhouse some 45 minutes later.

“Darling, Grell will help with your bags if you want to go inside and make yourself comfortable. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

I had nearly forgotten about Grell, my Aunt’s partner.

Aunt Ann had been married before I was born but her husband had died. From what I remember my mother saying, Aunt Ann was different then, a young med student, a homemaker, the kind of aunt who insisted on having everyone from the extended family to her house every Christmas. Then her husband died and she threw everything into her career. Understandable to me as she had now become the leading OB-GYN specialist in the northeast, but she was strange.

Aside from her affinity for the color red, Aunt Ann also had a penchant for luxury items. Everything from her handbags and shoes to her iPhone case and dog leash were either Prada or Miumiu and her townhouse was no different. I wasn’t unfamiliar with the lifestyle she enjoyed, my parents had money and left me with a trust when they passed, but it didn’t hold the same interest for me it seemed to for my aunt.

In addition to her other designer belongings was Grell, her live-in boyfriend, or partner, or arm candy. I was never sure what term to use as her description of the man was constantly changing. All I could say for sure was he had yet to earn the title of husband and it didn’t seem like he ever would.

Grell greeted us at the door, giving my Aunt a wide smile and bending to pull me into a hug. He was tall and thin, impeccably dressed with long, auburn hair pulled back in a low ponytail. He would have been perfectly at ease at an art gallery or maybe teaching a lit class at the local college, but here he was haunting the foyer of this plush townhouse instead. Strange and overly friendly, but pleasant enough. I couldn’t really complain when I had been welcomed into their home.

My bags spread out on my new temporary bed, I looked at the extent of my belongings, comfortingly black against the clean neutral colors of the room. Somehow my entire life had been distilled down to fit into this small room in the space of one afternoon.

There was a soft knock at the door and then my aunt’s perfectly made-up peeked through the doorway.

“Do you have everything you need, darling?”

“Yes, I think so.”

She looked over my face carefully with a slight frown. “Are you in any pain?”

“A bit. But I’ll be fine.”

A few graceful steps and she sat down beside me on the bed. “Would you let me take a look?” She meant the bandage. The horrible ruin that was behind it. I didn’t say anything but felt my stomach go cold as though it was suddenly full of ice water.

“I understand.” She had a weak smile on her ruby lips, her voice was soft. “Can I ask...is the eye still there?”

“Yes. But it’s ruined.”

“You’ll make it through this, darling. I know it probably doesn’t seem that way right now, but you will come through just fine. And in the meantime, anything you need, just ask.”

I wanted to say something to acknowledge the kindness she had extended, but I couldn’t seem to get my mouth to form the words. I merely stared at her as she stared back at me, her eyes traveling back and forth across my face, trying to read my expression, or maybe my mind. Or maybe she was just imagining the damaged flesh that was hidden from her curiosity by the layers of white gauze. Whatever it was, she stopped finally and left me to the quiet of my room, surrounded by black clothing, a handful of books and my laptop. I don’t know how long I sat, or what time it was when exhaustion finally claimed me, but it was the scent of coffee brewing and bacon frying that roused me again once daylight had filled the small room.

Somehow I had survived the first night of my new life.

 


	2. Trash

“God-fucking-dammit!” I lost my grip on the end of a massive guitar cabinet that had the blond idiot on the stupid end. The black box slammed down to the pavement with a crack, missing the toe of my boot by an inch.

“Hold on, I’ve got a call,” Bard growled back, digging some ancient cell phone out of his jeans pocket.

“I swear to god if you injure me because you’re chasing pussy I will leave your ass in Queens.”

I was silenced by the grizzled old man turning his back on me to speak into the phone, though his voice was so loud and barking the gesture hardly afforded him privacy. I sat down on the cabinet and stuck a cigarette between my lips, contemplating the evening crowd that moved around us as though we were invisible.

“Yeah? Yeah? Right. Are you gonna be there? I don’t fucking know, second probably. We always get the shitty middle slot. No, no. Bassy drove the van.”

“Fuck you.”

“Sorry. _Sebastian_ drove. That better, princess?”

Bard hung up the phone and dug out a cigarette of his own. A police car did a slow drive by, the officer making a point of making eye contact with both of us where we sat, taking up space on the sidewalk. I looked at the van, parked halfway up on the curb, and knew that he’d be back in a few minutes to give us shit.

Every weekend I was in some random part of the city hauling heavy gear for Bard’s shitty punk band; three guys with pawnshop guitars and a borrowed delivery van that still stunk like rotten produce. Every few days it was a different bar, or sometimes the same one a few nights in a row. Sometimes it wasn’t even a bar but a veteran’s hall or the basement of a squat tenement where the crust punks had rigged up electricity and had a table set up with free vegan food and a donation jar for the keg. They would play anywhere that invited them, and I would invariably follow.

But why was I here?

Because I wasn’t at the tattoo shop.

When my mentor got into one of his moods, he was intolerable. The shop already resembled more of a real undertaker’s salon than a tattoo studio. It was cluttered, the walls covered with “funeral coach parking only” signs and any number of memento mori photographs and headstone artworks, piles of bones everywhere and more than a few taxidermy crows. On his bad days, my mentor preferred talking to the mummified corpse he kept in the shop. We would go days without saying more than two words to each other, but I would hear him muttering under his breath and laughing. I would start getting twitchy at some point around Thursday and by the time Bard was getting ready to book another show, I was already backing the van up to our apartment steps to get the crappy gear loaded up.

I was no stranger to the more obscure and deviant subcultures of NYC, but the funeral obsession was not something I pretended to understand. The Undertaker’s level of interest in death and the symbolism and ceremony that went with it was far beyond my own morbidity, and I was a morbid mother fucker. I didn’t ask a lot of questions, nor did I make a habit of going over to his side of the shop.

The mummy, Apophis as he was named by the Undertaker, was displayed against the wall near his tattooing station, wooden casket open to the air and a faint scent of spices and dust coming from the bandaged corpse itself. Once the health inspectors really started cracking down on our industry, they made Undertaker put the dead guy in a glass case and pack away some of the other curiosities to keep the shop sanitary and up to code. That didn’t seem to deter the conversation between the two of them.

The profession must have been a bit different when the old man started his shop. In fact, tattooing was illegal in New York City until 1997, so the work done wasn’t regulated in a standard way, but the undertaker was strict in his methods and demanded perfection of work. Somedays he seemed almost human, the kinda guy you could grab a beer with after work and shoot the shit, while other days he barely acknowledged the living.

Still, the shop was the best home I had, and I probably wouldn’t have left if my mentor didn’t drive me to it.

“Come on you lazy bastard. We gotta get this shit inside before the cop comes back,” I said.

Bard grunted and flicked his cigarette into the street. The gig was in dive called Queen Vic’s in Woodside. The traffic wasn’t as thick as it was in Brooklyn, but I had a feeling the crowd would also be light once the music got going. Not that anyone in their right mind would want to listen to the badly tuned cacophony that was _Hand Grenade Helper_ , but there was a small but loyal following that the band had managed to cultivate. Of course, some of that was a result of Bard’s former band, _Bleeding Uterus_ , which supposedly had the drummer from _Leftover Crack_ , but I figured Bard was full of shit.

I hated going into bars in the daylight. I could see every cockroach and piss stain in the place and because I was driving, I couldn’t even have a beer to dull my disgust. Once the lights were down and the crowd filtered in and the music drowned out everything else, I could ignore it, but with just the four of us and the bar staff, it was almost intolerable.

“I need a cigarette," I said the magic words that would get me out of most any situation. I propped open the back door and leaned against the outside wall, far enough from the dumpster that I couldn’t see what the rats were fighting over, and stared off across the neighborhood as the sun began to set.

I wasn’t that much different than my mentor, I realized. I wasn’t talking to corpses, but I was a moody son of a bitch with a growing sense of dread, and I knew something was going to break. A bunch of young kids in the parking lot struggled with a brand new Marshall half stack, getting it partially out of a hatchback car before they stopped to take a break. They were loud and crude and obnoxious. Probably high as shit. New band t-shirts and new tattoos, generic and quickly done. Of course, I had to judge the artwork, it was a professional hazard. What a bunch of assholes.

“Heh,” Bard grunted from the wall beside me.

“Yeah,” I agreed, sighing out a stream of smoke through my nose.

“I fucking miss those days, though.”

“Shit. Me too, man.” 

 


	3. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It takes a lot of effort to maintain a story. Characters are like pets that need to be fed new ideas and that require the writer's attention to sustain them. When the writer stops paying attention, the characters begin to fade and the story begins to die. I credit the presence and encouragement of my muse to bring new stories to light and to keep old stories alive. Without her, I wouldn't have started House of Sanctuary and Ciel and Sebastian wouldn't have gotten their origin stories in this AU. So this story is dedicated to St. Ciel, my beautiful partner in this world and the next.

At some point, I must have been a different person. I can’t see it now, can’t even imagine it as I look back at the last year of my life. At some point, I looked at someone with soft blond hair and sky blue eyes and fell under his spell. My heart was younger and more resilient. It beat with furious determination even as it was being pierced. It pumped away and I kept crawling back.

Even now I look back and feel a twinge of affection for him, a strange little pool of warmth that makes my chest tight and my stomach a little sick. I swat it away like the distasteful thing it is.

He infected me. Somehow he got inside of me and despite everything he had done, every hurtful word, every malicious glance and every cut and bruise on my skin, I still felt a warmth for him. In my mind it felt a lot like the warmth of my own blood spilling onto my cold hands on the night he finally went too far.

But when he was sweet, he was so very sweet. All warm arms and soft hair and smelling like home. He purred in my ear that he wanted me. Never love, always desire. And only when there was nothing else to distract him. It was enough to keep me feeling important, to keep me wanting to strive for more. _How much contact will you give me, how much affection can I have if I do everything you want?_

I know I never loved him. Not the way I wanted to anyway. Even when I left there was no sense of loss, only a strange feeling of displacement. Surreal and completely painless, but through it all, my heart kept its steady pace and my body survived.

Is it the first day that’s always hardest? I woke up wondering what I was doing in this unfamiliar place. It was my home now. These four walls were my security and sanctuary. Nothing about it felt very comfortable despite the high thread count and the excessive number of throw pillows.  

“Now that you live here, darling, we’ll have to look into colleges. You could apply to medical school and even work at the hospital with me if you wanted to.”

“I don’t really want to be a gynecologist, Aunt Anne,” I said from behind my mug of tea. Even sitting at the breakfast table in her dressing gown my aunt was wearing red. Her makeup was flawless and it wasn’t even 7 am.

“Well, of course, you’ll have the opportunity to work across a variety of specialties when you do your residency. It doesn’t have to be OBGYN, though it’s a very rewarding field.”

“I’m not sure I have the stamina for medical school.”

“Of course. You need time to recover and then there’s your surgery. I’m sorry, I’m trying to rush you when what you really need is rest.”

“I probably won’t be here long enough to enroll in school anyway.”

“What? But where else would you go? You’re not thinking about going back to Montreal, are you?”

“No. But I can’t stay here forever.”

“Of course you can, this is your home.”

I smiled, tried to, but I don’t know what my face actually looked like. I turned back to my tea because it seemed safer. They were used to my silence anyway, though I could feel Aunt Anne and Grell exchanging looks over my head.

I spent the majority of the following two days drifting in and out of sleep. I would wake up forgetting where I was, and then the realization would hit me again, making my brain work, thinking, worrying and vainly trying to logic its way through this situation until I was exhausted and fell back to sleep.

On Monday, I saw the plastic surgeon and she was the first to look at the mess under my bandages since the emergency room doctor wrapped me up. The blood was dried and the skin had begun to heal and the pain was intense though the doctor was being exceedingly careful as she peeled back the layers of gauze. It took a bit of coaxing for me to take a look in the mirror after she did her examination.

“It’s not as bad as you think. You should wear an eyepatch while it heals, but after that, I think you’ll be just fine,” she said.

The lid was difficult to open, but once I did I could see the discolored orb. It was still there even though I couldn’t see through it anymore. Very slowly and very painfully, I could blink. While it was still very red and there was a scar running across the skin, the iris itself was oddly purple in color, a noticeable contrast against my other dark blue eye.

“I don’t need surgery to have it removed?” I asked.

“No. No, I think it’ll be just fine. Do you want me to bring Angelina in?”

I didn’t get the opportunity to consent before the door opened and my aunt came in to take a look.

“So, what’s the diagnosis, Dr. Chapman? Is my nephew going to live?”

“He’s just fine. We were just discussing a treatment plan,” the doctor said.

“Surgery?”

“No surgery,” Dr. Chapman said.

“That’s great news!”

It was great news, I suppose. I couldn’t really process what it all meant, but I realized that what I was at that moment was what I was going to be. There was no magical procedure that would make me any different. I wouldn’t get the vision back in my eye. And while I wasn’t going to lose the eye itself, it was still gone.

In the car on the drive home, my aunt was positively beaming.

“You must be thrilled. No surgery! You’re going to be just fine. Dr. Chapman wasn’t even worried about the scarring. You’re going to heal up good as new.”

“Except for my vision,” I said flatly.

“Well, yes. But your face is just as handsome as ever, my darling.”

I looked out the window, seeing my reflection against the grim suburban landscape. The black eyepatch was more comfortable than the gauze bandages. Certainly less noticeable, but still horrible. I never thought of myself as a vain individual, but I wasn’t convinced Aunt Anne was right.

“What did you think of the facility?”

“What?”

“Dr. Chapman’s office. It’s a state of the art facility. She does amazing work.”

“It seemed fine, I guess.”

“Ciel, that’s just the sort of place you could be if you started med school now. She’s a great teacher too. You would love working with her and you’d learn so much.”

“I don’t think so."

“I know it’s a lot to think about, but now that you don’t need surgery, you can start thinking about your future. It’s the perfect time for a new beginning.”

I let myself lapse into silence. The air in the car was charged with all of the things that Aunt Anne wanted to say but that I wouldn’t humor. I realized that this wasn’t going to stop as long as I stayed with her. She had the best intentions, but what she wanted was a son, a child of her own to carry on her legacy. I was not that child.

In the quiet of the car I pulled out my phone and started flipping through my emails. I hadn’t opened anything in the last three days and there was an excess of garbage waiting for me. One message in my inbox advertised apartment listings. I must have signed up for a mailing list the last time I was apartment hunting in Montreal after I finished school. I clicked on the link and looked at the search bar: “ _Where will you go?”_ it said. I looked out the window and watched as a few street signs flew by at high speed. We had gotten onto the highway now and the green signs were pointing North, one in particular, was “New Hampshire, Maine, and all points North”. North. After I had just come south.

It works for Stephen King, I thought.

 

 


	4. I Walk The Line

When I was 14, I was sleeping on the floor in the apartment that Bard shared with his bandmates. It was filthy and it smelled like mold and dirty laundry. The guys were loud, obnoxious, and drunk nearly all the time. It was a teenager’s dream. The building was a squat that was taken over by a group of punks in the late 80s. They’d done some amazing work updating the electrical and fixing the major structural damage, though some of the rooms had holes in the walls and there were windows missing glass. There were definitely more rats than people living there and it certainly wasn’t up to code, but it was safe and it wasn’t the street.

It was in D-Squat where I met a dude who turned me onto a job opportunity where I could make some quick cash. I could do as much or as little as I wanted as long as I could be fast and keep my mouth shut. Those were two things I figured I excelled at.

I started doing errands for a shady character named Lau who had me running parcels from Chinatown all over the island for a good hunk of cash each time. As long as I didn’t ask any questions or pay too much attention to the people I was delivering to, I kept making money.

I grew up knowing how to keep my mouth shut and my head down, but I was also a bit of an opportunist. When the chance arose, I began to skim a bit from the packages. Sometimes I would sell it, but I was curious and eventually started to use it myself.

One of my errands brought me to a tattoo shop in Brooklyn called the Crypt. It was here I met the strange man who would become my mentor and would save me from whatever horrible life I was setting myself up for. I was immediately obsessed by the walls of flash and the kitschy horror movie vibe of the shop and broke my rule of staying silent and ventured to talk to the man who called himself the Undertaker.

The Undertaker was a fixture on the little street in Brooklyn where he kept his shop. He was younger than the long mop of gray hair would suggest and despite his strange demeanor and propensity for laughing to himself for no reason, he was immediately friendly towards me. I figured there was more to him than appearance after all, most of the people I hung around with looked like they ate out of dumpsters, but once I saw him work, watched as bottles of ink and bundles of needles turned plain flesh into living works of art, I appreciated his brilliance. There was a reason so many put up with his eccentricities. There was magic in the work of this artist.

I found any reason to end up in his shop and soon began cleaning up and running errands for him as well as Lau. For my 15th birthday, the Undertaker gave me my first tattoo, a koi fish in the traditional Japanese style that I had come to love. He explained the tattoo was not only a beautiful image but a symbol I would carry with me for life. A koi can climb a waterfall without concern for the current and will face the knife of a fisherman without fear much like a warrior facing the sword. Once the design was applied to the skin, I felt like I had been imbued with some of these properties through my skin and ink talisman.

He told me other stories about men who carried their own koi tattoos; Japanese warriors, bikers, gangsters, and sailors and so many other artists he listed by name that my head was soon full of an obsessive love for this craft. It was that day I realized I wanted to tattoo and I asked if it was possible.

“Is it possible? Anything is possible. What are you willing to do to make it possible? That’s the question,” the Undertaker answered cryptically. He sat hunched in his long black coat, hair in his eyes, a grin on his face as he watched me.

“What would I have to do?” I asked.

“You’d need a machine,” he said kicking the little box at his feet. “And you’d need someone to take you on as an apprentice. You can’t learn this at school.” The last statement had him dissolving into a steady fit of laughter.

“What else?” I asked when he stopped wheezing and became silent again.

“You need to draw every day. I mean, every day. You got me?”

“I can do that.”

The Undertaker nodded but said nothing else. He left me to figure out the rest on my own. I started to save every extra cent I had to buy my own machine, though I sidetracked occasionally by the work I did for Lau and was still skimming off tiny bits every time I wanted to get high. That, unfortunately, became more frequent as time went on.

Bard never said as much, but I could sense that his patience with me was running thin around that time. When I wasn’t at the tattoo shop or running packages, I was lugging gear to and from music gigs with Bard. You would think I would have been busy enough to stay out of trouble, but, eventually, it still found me.

“Are you fucking sure about this?” Bard asked for the third time as I shaved the fine blond hair from his upper arm.

“Shut up, pussy. It’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.”

The Undertaker looked on with a steady giggle in his throat as I prepped my first human client for a tattoo. Before this, I had been relegated to pig skin in the form of random dismembered body parts gifted to me by my mentor. I was used to his style of teaching and knew that despite his inattentive demeanor, he was in fact watching and would step in with instruction, though perhaps too cryptically worded that it would take me some effort to unravel it before any serious mistakes were made.

The stencil went onto Bard’s skin easier than it had on the cold, stiff pig’s skin and I remembered what the Undertaker had said about tattooing a living client.

“The ink will go in easier, so you won’t need to push it so hard. Remember, they’re alive. Usually. And they can feel it. Whether or not you care about that is up to you, but remember not to go into it pushing hard. Keep your lines clean. You can always go deeper and darker, but you can’t back off once you’ve gone too deep.”

It turns out that would be good advice for a few aspects of my life beyond tattooing, but in this instance, I was dealing with Bard and I didn’t want to hurt him necessarily. Even if he was sort of like a pig.  

When my needle first hit his arm and I saw how the ink exploded into the skin I was so hooked I knew I had found what I was meant to do with my life. It was unfortunate that this same day a couple of cops would pick me up on my way out of Chinatown with a backpack full of heroin. I used my one phone call to apologize to the Undertaker and to ask him to put my gear someplace safe where Bard wouldn’t find it and sell it while I was gone.

My years as a courier came with the essential training to keep my mouth shut and I spent hours on end looking blankly at an assortment of police officers and social workers until my fate was decided. The attorney who was appointed to me pushed the fact that the backpack wasn’t mine and I had no knowledge of its contents, but without a name of its owner, I was still nailed with possession. Somehow I escaped any charges involving my intent to sell.

I served a year and a half as a minor in a corrections facility. The time away allowed me to finish my high school education. I also decided to learn as much about auto mechanics, strength training, and art, just for good measure. It was a college crash course in life that spat me out when I was 18, somewhat worse for the wear, but also a fuck of a lot smarter.

Bard had moved out of the squat by the time I got out and was living with a girlfriend who had gotten him in with a different group of jerks, this time deathrockers and rivetheads. Basically, the goth kids who listened to heavier music and wore more leather. He was still hauling gear and playing gigs, but now it was behind the Bowery and it was sometimes just DJ gear instead of guitar rigs. He was still the same asshole, but now he made a habit of wearing goggles around his neck.

The Undertaker was much the same as when I left him. When I stepped back into the shop he said not a word about what had happened or where I had been, but asked if I had been drawing.

“Every day,” I responded.

“Have you been tattooing?”

“No. There was no way to keep it clean.” Actually I had many opportunities to tattoo in prison, but I couldn’t tolerate the idea of doing it wrong and unlearning any of the good habits I had built so I stuck with drawing.

“Good. I saved you a pig.”

About a week after I was released, the Undertaker started on my demon tattoo.

“It’s been on your back this whole time anyway,” he said.

“What has?” I asked as he drew it out on my back with a red permanent marker. He had me sitting in an old massage chair, or maybe it was one of those backwards chairs girls sometimes had in front of their vanity tables. Either way my knees were locked in and my back was exposed while he explained the tattoo in his own insightful way.

“He’s been clawing at you since I met you, kid. We’re just going to give him a face so you can remember how ugly he is.”

...

By the time I was 21, I had been working regularly with clients for two years and the Undertaker was confident enough in my work to send me to conventions to represent the shop. Honestly, I think the old man was becoming too eccentric to work with the general public. He seemed to do better in his own shop with clients coming to him who already knew what they were in for.

Of course he was well known in the tattoo community and when I did my first big show in London, I drew a lot of attention. Strangers would shake my hand or slap me on the back after seeing that I wore a convention badge naming “the Crypt, Brooklyn NYC” as my home shop. The name was well known and I had a reputation to live up to.

I was assigned to share a booth with the most straightlaced, stuck up looking tattoo artist I had ever encountered. He showed up with his black rolling equipment case, not a scratch or a sticker on it, wearing a black suit with a pressed white shirt and black tie.

“Hey,” I offered my hand in greeting. “Claude, is it?” I said looking at his convention ID that hung against the front of his suit.

“Yes. And you are Sebastian, the first and only apprentice the Undertaker has ever taken on.”

“You know him?”

“There’s not a soul in this entire venue who does not know the Undertaker. He is, how should I put this...infamous.”

“Not a fan?” I asked. I felt myself bristle a bit at his attitude.

“I prefer a more subdued and elegant style,” he said.

“So how’d you end up stuck sharing a booth with a freak like me?”

The dude decided to ignore me while he set up his end of the booth, unfurling a shop banner for Kumo Tattoo. Everything was clean and professional, black and red, lacking basic personality which seemed in keeping with the man himself. Conversely, my setup included the macabre themed banner for the Crypt, created with artwork that the Undertaker had painted directly onto the silk years and years ago. I also brought a skull to hold business cards. Besides my actual tattoo gear, I figured that was all I needed. It wasn’t the sleek set up that my neighbor seemed to have going, but it fit the shop I was there to represent.

“I guess it’s probably luck of the draw, huh? Just randomly putting people together so they can become new friends?” I tried again.

“That’s cheerfully optimistic, but wrong. I was asked to share this space with you.”

“Asked by who? No one asked me.”

“That’s abundantly clear and I’m afraid that a bit of a joke was had at both of our expense.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Again the passive aggressive ignoring technique was employed to diffuse my questions.

“Claude,” I said walking around to the front of his table and leaning in close. “I know we’re not friends yet, but you should be aware that I don’t give up easily and I don’t take fucking polite social cues. So, pretty please, tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.”

The man sighed and pushed his square-lens glasses up his nose. “Very well. I believe your mentor meant for us to…” he trailed off, clearing his throat.

“What? No, come on, man. Tell me.”

“Date. He meant for us to hook up, or whatever the common parlance is within the community.”

For the first time in my miserable life I didn’t have a smart comeback. My poor brain short circuited as I tried to process his words. I had not once said anything to anyone at the shop about my sexual preference. Deliberately, I ignored that entiere portion of my existence in the interest of merely surviving and learning my craft. So, why would anyone, and why in particular would the Undertaker think that I was interested in men? And why the fuck would anyone think I would be interested in this man in particular?

“You’re gay?” is what eventually fell out of my mouth as I looked at the dweeb in front of me. He stopped fiddling with his ink setup to regard me fully.

“It’s days like today that I wonder what has become of my life. I work hard to maintain a level of professionalism that is generally unheard of in this profession. I cultivate my art and grow a respectable client base, yet, here I am looking at you and dealing with this ridiculous situation.”

“What’s wrong with looking at me?”

Claude audibly exhaled and adjusted his glasses as if the very sight of me was enough to affect his vision.

“You’re used to having your looks disarm people. You don’t rely on your mind and when confronted with any minor conflict you default to this tough guy persona or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

“You’re a real dick, you know that?”

“I’ve been told as much.”

“So, what you’re saying is you don’t want to fuck me?” I had to ask. The face Claude made was worth the curious glances I drew from everyone around us. “Come on. I’ll buy you dinner first.” I leaned over further and looked up at the increasingly irritated man, trying his hardest to maintain composure and keep working.

“How long have you been tattooing?” I asked. It was a fairly innocuous question.

“Nearly 10 years,” Claude answered quietly as though he were afraid to give me any more material to use against him.

“And you have your own shop?” I looked genuinely interested as I flipped through the photobook he had placed out in front of his side of the booth. It was good work, excellent actually. Nothing compared to the work the Undertaker pulled off, but Claude’s technical skill was nearly flawless.

“Yes. I own my own studio.”

I hummed and considered for a moment. I closed the book and then looked up at him again. “You are going to be so embarrassed.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” he snapped, slamming the palms of his hands flat on the counter and leaning in until he was face-to-face with me. His eyes were dark and I knew that I’d hit on a particularly sensitive nerve.

I should probably have backed off. I should have turned around and continued to set up my station so I could fuck off and hit some pubs with the other artists who actually wanted to hang out with me. I should have apologized and then kept my mouth shut.

What I did say was, “I’m only two years out of my apprenticeship under one of the most infamous and talented men in the industry. My first convention is the biggest and most attended in all of Europe. I’m younger than you, a better artist than you, and God knows I’m a hell of a lot sexier. You’re going to be so embarrassed when I out tattoo you too.”

And that’s the story of when my future boss nearly broke my nose.

 


	5. Transmission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Betrayed by the past's desolation  
> We slept listless nights by the shore  
> Searching for signs of salvation  
> Hoping to find something more..."
> 
> -Transmission, The Tea Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the one who helps me to embrace the pleasures of pain.

It’s easy to leave again when everything you own fits into three bags. It’s difficult to leave again when you don’t have a car and your overprotective aunt insists on driving you two states away to look at potential apartments. She had gone years without seeing me for more than a weekend at a time, and now she couldn’t bear the idea of being without me. Part of me wanted to be indulged and taken care of, particularly after the circumstance I had just left, but I knew I would get tired of the constant attention. I already was.

What I really needed was to create a new life for myself. A new start, as cliched as it was to say. Life in Boston was great. The house was comfortable, the city was enjoyable, and I was far from Montreal. Unfortunately, it wasn’t my life, it was Aunt Anne’s. She had carved out a place for herself and made it into what she wanted and she seemed happy with it. Successful and elegant, still young enough to draw the attention of men everywhere she went, but happy with the one she had chosen and installed in her townhouse.   

“You were such a happy child,” Aunt Anne said with a frown. NPR played quietly on the radio, the monotonous voices of American civilized political discourse and the smooth motion of the car were making my eyelids heavy. We were trapped in the car again, a perfect time for her to ambush me with conversation.

“What?”

“You wear all black all the time and you never smile. You look so grim.”

“You wear all red all the time,” I retorted.

“Red is a happy color. The color of passion!”

“Or anger and violence.”

“Or love,” she said. “Black is just death and despair.”

“Or couture,” I shot back, a smirk on my face. I am witty.

“There’s a smile from my grim child!”

“Hmph.”

“Are you certain you don’t want to look for a place in Salem? It seems like the sort of place you’d enjoy.”

“Quite sure.”

“It’s no trouble. The exit is coming right up.”

“You know the modern town of Salem is not where any of the atrocities happened. It’s a tourist trap.”

“Well, Portland is still closer than Montreal, so I guess I’ll learn to live with it.”

It was early afternoon by the time we left the highway and the GPS guided us across the water and through an assortment of one-way streets, past a small hospital and a little neighborhood full of bars and galleries. It reminded me of Quebec and of Boston, but it was quiet and peaceful as we drove through to our destination.

The first building was brick and brownstone with a small set of elegant stairs leading to the dark wooden door and its brass knocker. The street itself was a quiet one-way, only a few blocks from the water and lined with tall, old trees. I had already made up my mind before we walked up to the third-floor apartment. The realtor stood expectantly in the doorway, addressing her questions to my aunt who cheerfully chatted on as she looked around. The ceilings were high and the rooms felt appropriately old and not deliberately stripped of character. The fireplaces, one in the bedroom and one in the living room, were replaced with new gas units that worked with remote controls and the kitchen was modern for all I cared to cook.

I wrote out a check for three month’s rent and handed it to the realtor. “It’s fine. I’d like to move in as soon as I can.”

The realtor looked from me to my aunt and then back to the check. She shifted uneasily in her low-heeled pumps. I had the impression that she wasn’t expecting to have me as the tenant.

“We’ll need to get you some furniture then. Is there a shop nearby?” My aunt asked the realtor with a ruby-lipped smile.

Another few hours and all paperwork was signed and everything was ordered and set to be delivered over the next week. Aunt Anne and I were headed back to Boston.

“Grell will be so upset that you’re leaving us,” she said.

“Will he?”

“Of course, my darling. He’ll come up with us next weekend to help you get settled.”

I found myself wondering what sort of person Grell Sutcliffe actually was. In the past week, I had spent more time with him than I had in the previous five years combined, yet I knew virtually nothing about him. He was always quick to indulge every and all of the whims and commands that Aunt Anne had for him and seemed happy enough to do so. I had a difficult time believing anyone was truly that subservient without some other motive. My aunt was certainly a dominant personality, but I doubted she had beaten the man into submission. There was just something about him that made me think his agreeableness was just an act. Maybe he was out committing horrible atrocities at night while my aunt was asleep. Maybe she helped him. She seemed a bit too put together to be real herself. There was a certain sinister darkness in my family and I wasn’t entirely convinced it was limited to my father’s side.

“You’re extra quiet. Are you having second thoughts, my darling?”

“Not in the least.”

“Will you miss us?”

“Of course. And I’m very grateful for all of the help you’ve given me. I’m not sure what I would have done without you. I’m just really looking forward to some time alone.”

I hadn’t ever lived alone before and the prospect was both terrifying and exciting to me.

What I really wanted was to go home, close the door, slide the lock and know I would be entirely and completely alone. No one lurking around the house like a black storm cloud. No one to slide into my bed, drunk and cold and promising harsh words if I didn’t bend completely to his will. No explosions of temper and fits of chaotic violence. Just me. Just quiet.

...

Friday afternoon, we headed back north, this time with Grell sitting in the passenger seat while I huddled into the back of the car. In addition to my own bags, they had brought along new towels, linens and some kitchen wear so I wasn’t moving into an entirely empty flat. None of it mattered to me. I wasn’t worried about my day-to-day comfort as much as I craved silence. It was a flurry of chaos until they finally kissed me goodbye and their car vanished from my street. I slid the lock into place, pressed my back against the door and closed my eyes. The silk of the black patch still felt foreign against my skin. I untied the string holding it in place and threw it as far from me as I could.  

Of all the unnecessary junk that I now had in this new space, the one thing I wished for in that moment was a stereo with speakers that could make the hardwood floor rumble and the windows shake. Instead, I plugged the tiny earbuds into my phone and scrolled to a familiar album and let a familiar voice ease me back into my own skin. Never had I felt so detached from myself as I did in that moment. I felt myself slide back like I was lowering into hot bathwater, first my legs and then my torso, slowly until it finally went over my head. I breathed in and let it fill my lungs. Beautiful warmth. It wasn’t the space but the music that made me feel at home.

_“No language, just sound, that’s all we need know. To synchronize love to the beat of the show. And we could dance…”_

 

 


	6. Beat the Devil's Tattoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the fervent need to write and to get the noise out of my head, the driving force in this story is to entertain and to charm my lovely wife. Supposedly it was my writing that won her over in the first place. I know she looks forward to reading though she already knows the plot from our rock talk sessions and has been reading over my shoulder. 
> 
> (If anyone is interested in what happened between Sebastian and William, please check out my story Reverb for all the gritty details.)

I saw Claude at nearly every convention I worked but after that first weekend, we would never be forced to share a booth again. The truly unfortunate thing was the more time I spent with the other artists, too many of whom had lives similar to my own, the more I grew to admire Claude. He was rarely without his black suit though he removed the jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves to work. Unlike a lot of his contemporaries, his ink was kept neatly under his clothes in the traditional Japanese style, the one aesthetic we both shared. He was always prepared and professional and his work was annoyingly consistent.

Eventually, I swallowed enough of my pride to have him do a little work on me, adding a warrior to contend with the demon on my back. It was the last night of a convention in Toronto when the crowd was down to the final dregs and I could see he was bored. I walked over to his booth and stripped off my shirt, flaunting my perfect body until he conceded to work on me. Drew a little bit of a crowd too. Claude’s Japanese artwork was perhaps even better than the Undertaker, partially because he had traveled to Japan to learn under some of the modern masters, and partially because he was a stickler for the rules of the style where the Undertaker was apt to follow his own set of rules. I suspected that Claude himself was at least partially Japanese himself but I never asked.

After I broke the stalemate, he, in turn, asked me to do work on him. Five hours of silence while I drilled away on his thigh only to get a nod when I was done. I suppose if it hadn’t been up to his standard he would have never asked in the first place, and he would have been sure to say something negative at the end. Despite our differences and my extreme need to antagonize him, over the years we built what you could almost call a friendship.

My life at that time was a fluctuating mess punctuated by good times, completing an epic sleeve for a favorite customer or getting to work on guys from great bands as they stopped in the city on tour, and also bad times when I felt myself slipping into harmful behaviors. Like most former junkies, I had addictive tendencies that got directed to other behaviors. Sometimes drinking. Most often smoking. And then more recently sex.

I had denied that part of my life long enough that when I found release, I hit it hard and as often as possible. It wasn’t a romantic relationship but more of a sexual chess match that took me out of my comfort area and kept me interested.

Release came in the most unlikely package. My new hobby was a glasses-wearing, black-suit-clad, straight-laced son of a bitch. Fuck me if he didn’t remind me of Claude every fucking time I saw him. I fought against it like hell and lost. I kept fighting every time my phone went off and he summoned me to Manhattan to fuck him senseless. Somehow he was exactly what I needed and I think I was the same for him.

Right around the time that I felt like my life might level out, that I might find some strange version of happiness, an old friend decided to look me up.

I had been out of prison for more than six years when he strolled through the door of the Crypt. I swear I smelled the fucker before I saw him, the reek of incense and opium was soaked into his clothes and it immediately shot through my memory in the way that scent can. My tattoo gun nearly fell from my hand in my haste to turn around. I thought I was free and clear but here he was. I had been so careful not to say anything, never breathing a word of who I’d worked for or where I’d come from. I had done my time and then detached. Why was he here now?

The Undertaker was there in a flash, layers of dusty black clothes and long gray hair blocking my view, but I knew it was Lau.

“What brings you across the bridge, my old friend? Are you here to be measured for a casket?” the Undertaker asked.

“Ah, yes. I remember this place,” Lau said, looking around with his heavily lidded eyes. He was accompanied by his female bodyguard, petite, angry-looking, and entirely silent. “It’s been too long, I thought I would check in.”

“This is a long way to come for a social visit.” The Undertaker’s tone was oddly serious. Lau largely ignored this as he continued to look around the room, his gaze eventually falling on me. My client, a regular in my chair, sat silent, understanding something was going on but not knowing exactly what.

“You’ve taken on an employee,” Lau said.

“Yes, my first. One of the best artists on the island. Unfortunately, he’s kept very busy.”

“I can see that.”

“You’ll have to make an appointment if you want to stay much longer,” the Undertaker said.

“No need, no need, old friend. I’ll say good-bye for now.” Lau took his hand out from the pocket of his blue tracksuit and tossed a small plastic bag to me. Reflex kicked in and I stuffed it into my pocket before it could be seen, though everyone in the room had seen exactly what it was. Once the door closed, and the pressure in the room seemed to ease, the Undertaker let out a repressed laugh he must have been holding in.

“Another ghost from the past, eh?” he asked aloud slapping the glass that covered the mummy, Apophis. If he said anything back, I didn’t hear it, though the old man continued to laugh. I changed my gloves and went back to work letting the ice water settled into the pit of my stomach.

Several days later at the end of the evening, the Undertaker and I were alone in the shop. He hadn’t mentioned the incident with Lau or anything regarding my connection to Lau in the past but he looked at me now through the fringe of hair that covered his scarred face.

“I’ve taught you about all I know, I suspect you’ll be wanting to head off to find your own crypt soon.”

I hadn’t said anything, but I already knew I had to leave. It was painfully obvious that Lau was making some sort of claim on me and I wouldn’t be safe if I stayed at the Crypt or even in the city. Tattooing was the only thing keeping me in New York and I could do that anywhere. I had offers constantly to do guest spots at studios all over the world.

“You’re still carrying that packet around with you,” the Undertaker said. It wasn’t a question, he knew.

“I am.”

“You’re listening to the demon on your back then.”

“Sometimes I think that I am the demon.”

The Undertaker laughed his unique cackle. “You always were good at making me laugh.”

I would miss the crazy bastard, but as he said, it was time for me to find my own crypt.

Occasionally Bard would send me a text message saying where he was and making sure I was keeping out of trouble. He had moved in with yet another woman, this time a hippy chick up in New England. He was still working in restaurants and DJ-ing. I took advantage of one of his messages to make my plans.

_Do you think I could crash with you for a few weeks? I got a job offer I think I’d like to pursue._

_Yeah._

_Yeah? That was easy._ I replied.

_The woman is gone on a yoga retreat. Come on up. You have to share with room with Byron though._

_Who the fuck is Byron?_ I asked.

An image text came through of Bard looking very serious with an equally serious looking brown pitbull on his lap.

_Jesus Christ. Is that Scooby-Doo?_

Bard texted back. _Byron is my son and I love him more than you._

_I hate dogs. If he snores as bad as you the deal is off._

_That sounds like a YOU problem. At least he stays out of the trash._

As my hand reached into my pocket and felt the heroin warm and nestled inside the baggie, I acknowledged I was approaching trouble quickly. Ultimately, I did accept a job offer from Claude. Of all people, I decided to work with him. The absolute asshole that he was, he seemed to sincerely want me to work with him. The final nail in the coffin was the fact that he happened to be in the same city as Bard.

The next problem was to figure out what to do with William. I hated to use a phone to convey anything significant. It seemed to me that anything should be said face-to-face if there was any amount of respect for the person you desired to communicate with. I considered William and I questioned my feelings on that particular matter while I punched out a text message.

_I’m leaving New York._ I looked at it for a full five minutes, thinking nothing in particular until my eyes burned from looking at the tiny screen in the dark of my room. My thumb twitched and I hit send. It took only a moment before the phone buzzed in reply.

_When?_ I looked at the word and sighed.

What did I expect him to say? What did I hope to achieve here? I could have left without saying anything. Why didn’t I?

_Tomorrow._

I let the incoming call sit for three full rings before I answered.

“What?”

“I want to take you out to dinner,” the dry voice on the other end of the phone said.

“That’s not really our thing.” Which was true. For all the time we spent together, we had not ever shared a meal or done anything vaguely date-like.

“Does it matter?”

Did it matter? It was quite possible that I would never see the man again. I owed him something for the last six months, even if I didn’t want to admit it. I would leave New York having had exactly one date. One amazingly horrible date.

Near to three in the morning that night, Bard would rescue me from myself. I was sitting in the worst dive bar I could find in the posh part of Manhattan.

_You still coming tomorrow?_ He asked.

_Yeah. That still cool?_ I typed back thinking about how it was already tomorrow and that I hadn’t slept or sobered up. It was going to be a long drive, but I had a new car and who the fuck cared?

_Still cool. Can’t wait to see you, man._

I could have just stayed up another few hours, drank another few beers and then left that horrible city behind. But I heard the voice of the Undertaker. “Can’t do that and stay above ground and free.”

_I gotta sleep this off and then I’ll be on the road._

Everything, my entire life was packed into the trunk of a ’65 Fastback waiting for me. I was ready to leave that shithole forever.  

 


	7. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my perfect drug and most desirable of muses, the only one who can get me through the day when I don't know where my head is at or how I'm going to make it through. She understands and makes me whole again.
> 
> "I got my head but my head is unraveling  
> cant keep control can't keep track of where it's traveling  
> I got my heart but my heart's no good  
> you're the only one that's understood..."

Life alone was utter bliss. I came and went as I pleased, stayed up all night with a bottle of wine and a stock of books in front of the fireplace. I ignored most everything to follow my own whims, going days without speaking to anyone, or just playing my violin all day long until the downstairs neighbor slipped a polite note under my door requesting that I either stopped or played something more cheerful. 

For about three weeks, it was bliss. That’s when my bank account began to so signs of wearing thin and I became bored with my new found freedom. Aunt Anne repeatedly reminded me that I could live off my trust fund if only I enrolled in school again, but that was still more than I wanted to contend with. I resolved that I would have to find a job. I had worked before, after all, and in a similar field. Quitting my job to leave wasn’t the easiest decision I had made, but it did feel good to sever all ties to Montreal.

For those reasons, temp work was about the level of commitment I felt like making and I was placed with an investment company, and when they discovered I was from Montreal, I was asked to do translation work. It was the perfect job. I could go into the large building, speak to no one, sit in my corner with headphones on and go about my work until it was time to go home again. Occasionally someone from customer service would ask for my help with a French caller, but as it wasn’t a daily occurrence, I forgave the intrusion.

Only on Friday afternoons would I start to get restless listening to other workers my age making plans to meet up, have drinks, and chase individuals of opposing genders. Not that the plans they made sounded like anything I wanted to be a part of, but it would have been nice to have something to look forward to.

It was just past three o’clock on one such Friday and I was almost positive I was about to die from boredom. I looked at the little clock at the bottom of the computer screen and at the analog on the wall. Both mocked me with a lazy 3:08. 

I pushed away from my desk and took my third bathroom break since lunch hoping to kill maybe ten minutes if I walked slowly and lingered by the coffee machine for a bit. The was a bulletin board with a few rather out-dated flyers, but I read them anyway while I waited for my cup of tea to steep. I turned to toss the spent tea bag into the trash and nearly ran into a fast moving girl as she darted through my blind spot to reach the coffee pot. 

“Oh, hey temp! How’s it going?” she inquired. I recognized her voice from customer service, but I hadn’t seen her face before. She had short, fire engine red hair pulled back into two pigtails and a pair of thick round glasses. Her version of business casual was a short black dress over black tights and a pair of Mary Jane shoes. 

“Hi.” I gave her a cautious smile.

“Not the most fun job, is it? I was a temp for a whole summer before a position opened up on the customer service floor. It’s still awful, but it pays better.” She smiled.

“It’s alright, I guess.”

“What were you listening to earlier?” she asked shyly. “It sounded industrial.”

“Oh. Maybe,” I said. I suddenly wondered how loud my music sounded when I had my headphones on.

“Have you heard the new  _ Front LIne Assembly _ ?”

I’m sure my face did a thing because her shy smile turned into a bit of a grin. “Yeah, that’s actually what I was listening to.”

“Mmmhmm, that’s what I thought. Here, take this.” She handed me a small printed flyer that had been folded and stuffed in her pocket. “This is tonight if you’re looking for something to do.” She turned to go and then stopped. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Ciel.”

“So nice to meet you, Ciel,” she said with her best fake office professional voice and shook my hand. “My name is Mey-Rin.”

When I got back to my desk I unfolded the flyer and looked it over. Amidst the comic book image of bats emerging from a cave was an advertisement: 

Friday Night is Plague Night at Sanctuary!

DJ’s Flamethrower and Miss Anne Thrope

Spooky dress encouraged. 21 plus, $5 cover.

I was certainly intrigued by the idea of actually having plans on a Friday night. Plans in a new city without fear of drama from Alois. I could go out and enjoy myself. After spending another afternoon behind a desk, I was gone when the clock hit five. The clouds had parted and the sun fell upon me in gilded rays of pure delight. My feet moved across the pavement with a fleetness that only came from a previous restriction of movement. My imprisonment was voluntary but it is no less tortuous and the time went no quicker. In fact, the closer to closing time, the slower the minutes seemed to go.

The paper in my pocket promised that black-clad fiends of the 21-plus variety would be gathered in some dark place and assaulted with loud music. The thought delighted me. I sat on the small balcony that faced the back side of the apartment building. There was a small parking area lined by trees, green and pleasant. A flick of my new lighter and I inhaled deeply from a clove cigarette. I savored the spicy-sweetness. I didn’t let myself smoke very often, but when I did I enjoyed it thoroughly. It tasted like good times, like drunken nights dancing, like smeared eyeliner and snags in fishnet stockings. 

I looked out across the shaded lot as the shadows grew closer together and the twilight set in. I thought about the red-haired girl from customer service and wondered what the crowd would be like at this club. If it was totally awful I didn’t have to stay. At the very least I could grab a drink and chat with Mey-Rin a bit. It would be nice to have a friend at work even if it was only temporary. 

I wandered back inside and punched the buttons on my stereo until it started playing the gritty industrial rhythm of the Skinny Puppy cd that I’d left in there. I closed my one good eye for a second and just enjoyed the feeling of being free from work for the next two days. Freedom was so good, but having something to do was even better.

I poured myself a glass of wine, dark and red, mingling with the taste of clove that lingered on my lips.  I peered into my closet and pondered what to wear. It had been so long since I had gone out that I almost forgot how to wear anything but my tiresome work clothes. An hour later I had half of my closet spread out on my bed and discarded onto the floor. I finally settled on a pair of almost painfully tight black jeans, a torn and abused fishnet shirt and an equally tight and worn Skinny Puppy t-shirt. Inspired by the repeated utterance that ‘Jesus wants to be ugli,’ I pulled the shirt over my head and hooked my thumbs into the fishnet. I felt comfortable. I felt like I was coming home again. 

I really hoped this evening wouldn’t be disappointing. 

A black leather belt slung low on my slim hips and a bit of stuff in my hair to tussle the office blandness out of it and I was about ready. I reverently reached into the back of my closet to find my 20-hole Doc Martens and started the process of lacing them up. The feeling of my thin legs being lovingly laced into the stiff leather made me smile. 

I took one last look at myself before heading out the door. My face was pale and my hair was naturally black, long enough to fall over my face when it wasn’t tucked behind my ears. My one good eye was dark blue and I wore a simple silk patch over the other. My hair usually fell across the patch making it less noticeable. Surprisingly it worked well enough that I wasn’t asked too often about what had happened, though I still got the occasional idiot who assumed it was a fashion statement. Hopefully, this wreck that I saw in the mirror was still passable for a night out. 

If the scene wasn’t too abysmal. 

I tried not to get my hopes up, but I really couldn’t help but feel excited as I walked to the bar. I looked at the flyer again and turned down a side street. The neighborhood reminded me of the parts of Boston I had explored, more compact but old and crooked, traveled by many feet over the decades. The brick sidewalks were slick with rain, shiny and bright.  Seeing the building, I felt my heart sink. The bold neon letters spelling out SANCTUARY ran along the side of the building, but the first door I encountered read Sports Bar. I kept walking. No way in hell was I going in. But another few steps and I saw a collection of kids dressed in black and smoking cigarettes while leaning against the brick of the building. Another entrance. I cautiously approached and started to see flyers similar to the one in my pocket advertising bands and DJs stuck along the wall. I strode past the smokers, standing tall like I owned the street and knew where the fuck I was going. 

I followed a girl with platform boots and a short vinyl skirt across the lobby and down a wide flight of stairs. Once I reached the bottom step I could hear the thrum of industrial music and see a dark room beyond filled with people. An adorable blond girl with a sweet face and purple lipstick was perched on a stool behind a podium at the entrance to the dance floor. 

“Hi,” she smiled, shouting a bit to be heard over the music. “I need to see your ID and the cover is five bucks tonight.”

I handed her my Canadian driver’s license and the cash and extended my right hand to be stamped. The stamp was a black cat.

“You’re new here?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, enjoy. It’s a fun crowd. Lots of regulars.”

“Thank you.” I felt her eyes on my backside as I walked past her and was glad I wore the extra tight jeans. 

I ventured into the darkness, blinking as my vision adjusted, skirting around the dance floor where a handful of early enthusiasts were gyrating to the trance-like beats of an electronic track and found my way to the bar. First things first. Put a drink in my hand.

The bartender was a beast of a man. His arms were testing the tensile strength of the tight black t-shirt he wore. He was a bit short for my taste but a nice enough face. Nothing to write in my diary about, but I put on my best flirting face as I put in my drink request of a vodka and cranberry.

“You sure you don’t want the special?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. I glanced at the special board, a messily scribbled selection on a dry erase board. The first entry was ‘sex with the bartender.’ I couldn’t say no to that.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have sex with the bartender,” I amended. 

“Always an excellent choice,” he said and spun around to make the drink. Three dollars, a devastating smile and a two dollar tip later, and I took my sweet drink and ventured into the crowd to see what I had gotten myself into. 

I found a vantage point away from the dance floor with my back against a wall so I could look around and sip my drink. I took out the plastic stirrer and took a tentative sip. It was sweet and strong and would certainly do the job. More people began to come down the stairs and flow into the club, and the crowd began to get a little more interesting. There was a good mix of boys and girls, lots of pretty clothes to look at. The music was generic industrial, but the energy was good and I found myself bouncing on the balls of my feet while I looked around until someone crashed into my arm, knocking a splash of booze onto my shirt.

“Excuse you!” I shouted over the music.

“Hey, temp!” said the redhead from work, smiling and obviously feeling good. She had on a short ruffled black skirt and red corset squishing her substantial breasts up toward her face and making her waist look invitingly small. She still had on the thick glasses but she had spiked up her hair a bit and wore heavy eye liner. 

“Hello,” said the master of small talk. 

“You look great! Did you just get here?” she asked.

“Thanks, you too! Yeah, just came in a few minutes ago.”

“Did you have sex with the bartender?” She gestured to the drink, a stupid grin on her face.

“I tried to.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “That’s Mickey. He’s here every week,” she fanned herself as though she were sweltering and flustered. 

“Seems like a fairly decent crowd,” I said gesturing out to the dance floor.

“Yeah, it’s not bad for a small city. We’re here usually every Friday, though sometimes when we book a band we get to use the upstairs club area.”

“So you help to put this on?”

“Yeah. I work with Jesse to book the DJs and to get the advertising out.” She gestured to the blond girl at the entrance who stamped my hand. “It’s a labor of love, but we have fun!”

“That’s awesome. I didn’t know there was a goth scene here.”

“You’re new in town, huh?”

“Yeah, I moved here from Montreal.”

“Oooo…tres bien! That explains the French at work,” she shoved me again and laughed.

“Watch it! I paid for this drink you know.”

“So, you got a girlfriend?” she asked.

“No, do you?”

“Ha! Bitch. No, I do not. Though I have my sights on that waify little blond boy over there.” She pointed to a thin guy with blond hair that reached his jaw. He had on a Bauhaus t-shirt with the sleeves cut off to show his skinny arms and a pair of plaid trousers. When he turned around I could see that he had a sweet looking face. 

“He’s cute,” I said. 

“Well, hands off. I saw him first,” she shoved me again but I was ready this time and had my drink in the other hand. 

“Not my type anyway.” I glanced around the room again hoping that someone would stand out from the crowd with a spotlight just for me. No such luck. I took another swallow of my drink and chewed on an ice cube thoughtfully.

“What is your type, hmm?” she asked with a conspiratorial look. 

“I’ll know it when I see him, I suppose. Besides, I’m not sure if I’m ready to date again.”

“Bad one, huh?”

I sighed, feeling the edges of depression set in.  “You could say that.”

She nodded. “Been there. My last relationship was a doozy. Been on a bit of a sabbatical myself, but I’m gonna do my best to break the dry spell tonight. That reminds me, I need to put my song request in.” She skipped away from me toward the DJ booth, hopping up the three steps with drunken grace and started chatting with the DJ. 

At the end of the next song, the instantly recognizable hissing mechanical heartbeat rhythm of  _ Nine Inch Nails _ song “Closer”. I laughed to myself as I saw Mey-Rin skip over toward the skinny blond boy. Real fucking subtle, girl. After some serious blushing and smiling on his part, she managed to pull him out onto the dance floor and even got him to move a little bit through what I could only guess was her trademarked shoving method. At least he didn’t have a drink in his hand.

I was smiling, sipping my drink, and bouncing along a little to the music when two new guys came down the stairs, one tall enough that he ducked to get into the room. I almost dropped my drink when I saw his face. He was pale with dark eyes and dark hair, long and touching his sharp cheekbones in the front, but buzzed short in the back. He had on a pair of black leather pants that might have actually been sprayed on and a plain black, fitted t-shirt, tucked in to show off the studded belt that hung off his hips. He moved gracefully through the crowd, avoiding the dance floor, slipping past me, arriving finally at the bar. I saw Mickey give him a bright smile and then handed him a beer. The man’s arms were long enough that he could reach over the heads of the kids still waiting for their drinks.

Suddenly I felt like the song was playing just for me.

  
  



	8. The Mercy Seat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my sweetheart, my muse, and my best friend. I promise the next chapter will be a bit longer.

Early morning had me sitting and blinking in the driver’s seat of the mustang. The drinking from the night before had left me drier than Apophis and uglier than the Undertaker, but I hauled my carcass into the car and pointed it out of town.

I took my time and settled into the drive, a giant paper cup full of coffee held between my knees while I wolfed down the last real bagel and shmear I would have in awhile. Rounds of conversation bounced around my skull. Undertaker’s cracking bits of wisdom and the lack of finality to my leaving. He only made a glance in my direction while he worked on a metalhead’s back tattoo and that was the extent of his goodbye. No pause in the buzz of his machine, but there was a twist to his gruesome mug that could almost be called a smile.

Then there was William’s measured voice tinged with the slightest bit of melancholy. So faint I wasn’t even convinced it was there, though part of me hoped it was. Another part just felt disappointingly horny thinking about the missed opportunity of the night before. Being near him made me feel a full body need that had me digging my fingers into my thigh. I didn’t feel guilty about the way I left things with him, only idiotic for letting it go on as long as I had. I kept my phone switched off while I drove so I wouldn’t be tempted to answer if he dared call me.

The drive itself was bliss. The fastback hugged the road through the curves and accelerated down the straight stretches with bone-rattling horsepower. I eased into leather driver’s seat like it was made to hold me and rested my elbow on the open window ledge. The radio only played a.m. stations, but I found some classic rock that fit my mood well enough and even tapped out the drum beat to some  _ Cream. _

It was late afternoon when I rolled into the driveway of a small New England house. The sun was starting to sink lower into the horizon casting everything beneath it in a golden light. I cut the engine to the loud car and immediately heard the equally loud rumble of music coming from the house. I took a look at the manicured yard and the gingham curtains in the windows and tried to imagine Bard living here. It was certainly a step up from all of the shity apartments he’s haunted in the past, but it just felt like someone else's house. Some normal person. When my ears were able to sort out the music that rattled the windows and recognize the chorus of “Personality Crisis” I felt sure I was probably in the right spot.

No response to my banging on the door so I tried the knob and let myself in. The sudden impact of 80 pounds of canine slammed into my knees and sent me backward, landing on my ass on the floor with a loud bang.

“Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” 

A young woman stood in the kitchen, bare feet and long skirt, drying her hands on a towel as she rushed over to me. I struggled for a moment to get away from the slobbering beast that alternated between licking me and beating me about the head and face with its tail. “Byron usually barks when someone is at the door,” she said. 

The music stopped and the sound of loud steps came from the basement. 

“Someone bitching about the music again?” 

Bard appeared from a doorway, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear. He looked just the same as the last time I saw him. Close-cropped blond hair, permanent facial stubble, and a cigarette hanging off his lip.

“Byron made a new friend,” the young woman said, bending down to lend me a hand up. The dog jumped around excitedly making it difficult for me to stand.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d really do it, you crazy bastard,” Bard said. His grizzled face lit up in a smile and he pulled me into a hug.

“I said I was coming.”

“You say a lot of shit,” Bard said.

“Yeah, well I’m here.”

“I’m Paula!” the young woman said with a wide smile, pulling me into a hug.

“Paula, this is Sebastian. Sebastian, this is my girlfriend, Paula.”

“I’m so glad you came to stay with us! Bard has been talking about you nonstop for days. Unfortunately, I can’t stay, I’m on my way to Vermont.”

“Paula is going on a yoga retreat,” Bard said, putting an arm around her thin waist and pulling her against him. 

“And belly dancing!” she shook her slim hips and made the charms on her silver belt chime. “Jingle, jingle!”

“Thank you for giving me a place to crash. I really appreciate it.”

Bard went to the fridge and came back with a beer and pushed it into my hand. “Come outside and have a smoke with me.”

We walked through the kitchen and into a cozy living room, complete with a big screen television, and through a set of sliding doors into the back yard. The dog followed, bounding with glee across the deck and down the steps to the grassy yard. A stockade fence bordered the small yard and there were planters with tomatoes and a not so carefully concealed pot plant. 

“Nice setup you got,” I said.

“Great, isn’t it?” 

“It’s so...quiet.” There was no sound beyond the singing of birds and the gentle swaying of the trees in the breeze. No yelling, no car horns, no sirens. I couldn’t even hear a distance traffic sound despite the closeness of the highway.

“Yeah, I hate it.”

We both laughed and smoked for a few minutes in silence. I took a pull off the cold beer bottle and tried to enjoy the silence but I found it greatly unnerving.

“Why did you come here?”

“Chasing pussy, why does anyone do anything?” He laughed and put out his cigarette butt in a coffee can full of sand that sat on the deck next to a few empty beer bottles and a chewed up flip flop sandal.

“Paula seems nice,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“More wholesome than the goth chick, what was her name? Rain? Moonbean?”

“Starr,” he grunted.

I laughed. “Starr, of course. She had those hideous tribal tattoos around her biceps.”

“She was fucking hot though. And she knew a lot of musicians.”

“Paula seems nice,” I said again.

“I used to do coke off her pale ass before I went on stage,” he said wistfully, lighting up another cigarette. The dog came over with a wet tennis ball and dropped it at Bard’s feet.  

“Paula?” I asked being deliberately obtuse.

“Starr. She introduced me to Melora Creager. And Kenny Hickey.” Bard threw the ball and the giant beast launched off the steps after it.

“Who introduced you to the dog?” I asked.

“Byron? I found him in a dumpster outside of work. He was a tiny thing. Look at him now, eh?” The dog returned with the ball and dropped it at my feet. I kicked it off the steps with my boot. The dog just stared at me and then sat down.

“He wants you to throw it.”

“I’m not touching it.”

“He’s going to want to sleep with you tonight,” Bard said with a shrug as though there was nothing that could be done about the distasteful situation. 

“I hate dogs.”

“You’re a soulless asshole.”

“I never claimed to be otherwise.”

“Fellas, I’m leaving. My ride is here!” came Paula’s chirping voice from the kitchen. 

We walked back through the house to see her off. An honest to god VW minibus was parked in the driveway. Bard said his goodbye and Paula told us to behave, giving me another warm hug before she skipped out the door, still without shoes. The van drove off, a whiff of Ani Difranco on the radio spilling through the open windows.

“Let me see this beast of a car you stole,” Bard said, heading out the front door.

“Undertaker found it for me. I couldn’t resist. It used to belong to one of his clients, some old biker guy that fixed up old cars for a living.”

“Yeah? He have you running meth up to Canada?”

“I’m not messing with that shit,” I said. 

Bard opened the driver’s door and slid into the leather seat. “Fuck, this is making me hard and the engine isn’t even on yet.” He turned the key and grunted with satisfaction. 

“It’s nearly perfect. I couldn’t let it live in the city. It needs an open road to stretch its legs.”

“Most guys refer to their sweet machines as women. You need to respect her, caress her,” Bard said as he gently pumped the gas pedal, making the engine rev. 

“It’s a car, not a woman.” 

“If you don’t know what to do with a woman, you don’t know how to handle a car like this.” Bard shifted into reverse and I realized I should probably get into the passenger seat before my car vanished down the driveway.

The aviator seat belt snug against my lap, I let Bard brazenly squeal down his street and then pull into the traffic on the interstate. A wicked grin spread onto his face as the car did what it does best, picking up in speed as it gripped the road like the wheels had claws.

“She’s smoother than most women I know,” Bard said over the sound of the engine and the air roaring through the open windows. 

“Please don’t ejaculate in my car, I have to sit in that seat.”

“Were you always this uptight?”

“Were you always this chauvinistic?”

Bard’s laughter was like the grumbling of the engine. 

“Wanna go out tonight? I’m doing a set.”

“You gotta band still?” I asked. I could already feel my back start to seize up at the thought of moving gear.

“DJ.”

“What sort of scene do they have in this backwoods town?”

“Portland is a city, dickface,” he said. The car downshifted as we slid off the highway, the engine bucking at the slower speed, begging for more gas and more open road.

“So three kids in a veteran’s hall?” I asked.

“Fuck you. It’s six kids in a bar.”

“Sounds great.” 

  
  



	9. Biscuit Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What could my life have been had I only been slightly different, slightly more inclined to impulsivity and less inclined to overthinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's certainly been awhile since I've posted any fanfic, but rest assured that my beautiful muse has kept me writing. She is my constant encouragement and the gentle voice that tells me that my creative endeavors are worthwhile. That's why I will always dedicate my work, no matter how small or short, to my wife and kindred Kuro enthusiast, St. Ciel.

Swaying in the darkness, I closed my eyes and felt the thrum of the music in my chest. The booze made my head feel light, but not unpleasantly so. The energy was almost measureable. So much excitement, so much sexual anticipation in one room. It was hard to wrap my mind around the idea that I could be actively looking for someone to go home with, even if my body urged me to wrap my legs around someone. Anyone at this point. Forget getting to know them or dating them like people supposedly do. _You could just hook up, Ciel._

I never really had dated. I moved from a few innocent flirty friendships in school to living with my first and only boyfriend. The boyfriend I had left in Montreal. The realization that I was single, out for the night and had the potential of meeting someone hit me like a water balloon to the junk.

I watched Mey-Rin as she stalked her tender prey. She smiled wide and laughed as she danced, leaning in close to talk into the boy’s ear. He smiled a sweet, shy smile and said something back that made her laugh and grab his hand. It was too dark and the lights were too unnatural but I would have guessed that he was blushing.

What would it take for me to walk over to a stranger, say hello, grab their hand, move my body and dance with them? As a rule, I didn’t really dance. I threw back the last bit of my drink and chewed on an ice cube thoughtfully as I watched the bodies on the dance floor.

I had been in a bit of a trance when I looked up to see two men walk into the room. From the bright entryway, an older looking punk came in, combat pants tucked into black boots and a ratty UK Decay t-shirt that looked like it came out of the 80s. Behind him was a taller guy, pausing to blink for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the basement club. He was caught it a flash of lights, blue and red across his face. He was tall enough that he had to duck his head to fit through the short doorway. Longer black hair hit his cheeks but was cut close in the back. He wore a simple black t-shirt, snug to his broad shoulders, and a pair of black leather pants.

I felt my lips part and I realized my jaw must have been on the ground. _Show a little decorum, Ciel_. He was certainly attractive, but for some reason I was having a hard time looking away.

The punk went toward the DJ booth, but my eye followed the other man through the crowd to the bar. His long limb reached over the heads of the kids lined up at the bar and grabbed two bottles of beer from the bartender. The bartender seemed to know him and clasped hands with him in a very masculine fashion. My heart skipped. _Calm yourself, Ciel._ The man turned and made his way back through the crowd, skirted the dancefloor to lean into the DJ booth where his friend was waiting. They seemed to know a lot of people here.

I was disturbed from my speculation by the reappearance of Mey-Rin who came skipping in from the dancefloor to collide with me.

“So, I pulled,” she said with a bright grin. “I’m heading back to dance more, but I wanted to check on you.”

“That’s sweet,” I said and meant it. I didn’t want to speak too soon, but it felt like I had actually made a friend in my new city. “I’m good. About to get another drink.”

“You want to come dance?” she asked, bumping me with her hip.

I smiled and shook my head. “I’m okay watching for now.” I made a move to disengage so she could return to dancing, but before I could move toward the bar, the punk from the DJ booth came over to where we stood.

“Hey, Red,” the punk said, pulling her into a bear hug. She squealed and kicked her feet as he lifted her petite body from the floor.

“Baldroy, cut it out!” Mey-Rin protested but kissed the punk on his scruffy cheek.

“I can’t help myself around you,” he said.

“Jesse said you couldn’t make it tonight. We had to have someone fill in for your set.”

“I couldn’t stand the idea of going a whole week without seeing you,” he said with a cheeky grin.

“You do remember that we’re not dating any more, right? And that you have a girlfriend?”

“Who’s this?” the punk jabbed his thumb in my direction ignoring what she said entirely.

“This is Ciel. Isn’t he adorable?” Mey-Rin said. “Ciel, this is Bard, my former boyfriend and permanent pain in the ass.”

“What are you kids up to tonight?” he asked. Mey-Rin gave him a look that I didn’t quite understand. It was maybe in response to his implication that we could be more than friends, though if they were no longer dating, he had no need to be jealous.

“I have to go,” Mey-Rin said, looking over Bard’s shoulder to see that the young blond guy was still where she left him. She maneuvered past him and he watched her go.

“Bad luck, kid,” he said to me before he went back to the DJ booth leaving me to my solitude again.

I had another drink, watched the people dancing and twirling in their dark attire, bouncing on the balls of my feet here and there when a good track came on. I glanced at my phone and saw it was nearly 12:30. Not an unreasonable time to slink out. I didn’t want to wait until last call when the singles were scrambling to pair up for their Friday fornication. I didn’t want any uncomfortable encounters. I just wasn’t ready yet.

Outside the air was cool and clear, so of course I immediately needed to light up a clove cigarette. The smoke swirled around me like a friendly spirit as I made my way back home. First down the dark side street, I crossed the street to avoid the sports bar entrance, and then onto the main street. I had my head down and was walking at a slow pace, still feeling a little numb from the booze, thinking about the evening and everything I had seen, my ears ringing slightly from the music they had been assaulted with. I barely heard the comment as I walked by.

“Is that a clove I smell?”

I turned to see Bard’s tall friend leaning up against a building, one boot up against the brick, a lit cigarette between his lips. He looked at me from head to toe and then back up to my face, nodding at the slender black cigarette that was halfway to my mouth.

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

“Can I bum one? Do you mind?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course.” I scrambled to get the black package from my tight jeans pocket. My body froze a hot second as he kicked away from the wall and flicked his lit cigarette into the street in a single smooth gesture. He took a step towards me and stood at his full height of fuck-that’s-tall. I held out the cigarette and fumbled to get my lighter lit and in his direction so he could bend down to light it. I felt a touch of his breath on my check as he exhaled before taking a breath in and giving life to the orange ember. He took a step back and exhaled to smoke, his eyes closing as he emitted a small moan.

“God, that’s good. I haven’t had one of these in years.”

“You’re welcome,” I squeaked.

His eyes settled on my face again in an apprising fashion. “You one of Bard’s friends?” he asked.

“Just met him tonight. Yourself?”

“Yeah. He grows on you.” He took another drag of the cigarette while I struggled to think of something to say. “Nothing else tastes like that,” he said and started to turn and walk back in the direction of the club. I failed to say anything else as he rounded the corner and out of my sight.

I do try to be okay with myself. I try to be alone with my thoughts and my inner dialog. I know I’m a neurotic mess of emotions and impulses that are almost impossible for me to contain in this small assortment of flesh and bone. Often, I wonder how it is that I appear to the world at large and specifically to individuals encased in leather trousers and tight black t-shirts. My inner voice kicked in as I licked my lips.

_Nothing tastes like that except for my lips._

How much I wished I was the kind of man who could say something like that, if only for the slim molecule of a chance that he would hear it, turn back around, see the smirk on my face and slam me to the wall he had just been leaning against and taste me for himself. But I wouldn’t do that. The words died in my throat even as my body screamed at me to take action.

What could my life have been had I only been slightly different, slightly more inclined to impulsivity and less inclined to overthinking.

I turned and walked in the opposite direction back toward my apartment, the dark and the quiet. The silence was still comforting to me, but the ending of the night was decidedly anticlimactic and the feeling of loneliness was as oppressive as the ringing in my ears as I turned the key and let myself in.  


	10. No One Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What?! Two chapters in as many days? Of course it wouldn't be possible if my lovely muse didn't insist that I take my Sunday as a writing day. She is my own personal Sebastian and I have it on good authority that when she was pursuing a certain blue-eyed miserablist, she had thoughts similar to these.

What did I do to deserve this? In all of my life, in my entire miserable existence, I have never been subjected to these feelings. Granted, I avoided getting to know people as adamantly as I possibly could. Or rather, avoided letting them know me. Other than the Undertaker and Bard, no one really had more than one side of me at a time and never enough that I couldn’t easily slide out of their life like a bullet from an exit wound. Even they didn’t know all of me.

William was a bit of an anomaly and he almost got in. Damn, I think in his way, he really did try. Maybe that should have been my sign that I was getting weak and my shields were slipping.

Now here I was in a new town surrounded by what I can only assume were innocent and wholesome people, pining for this boy like a fucking school girl. At least in New York I could assume I’d never see him again. His stupid face was needlessly adorable with his moody furrowed brows, tiny little mouth, pale-ass skin. He was sexy as hell and didn’t even seem to realize it. I watched him, off and on all night, thinking he was safely unnoticed in his dark corner, but still shifting from foot to foot in his tight jeans and high boots, moving subtly to the beat of the industrial music.

That’s how the torment started. Then he started to show up in my thoughts at work. Once it was because a client looked vaguely like him, short and skinny with dark hair, and I started to fucking daydream about tattooing him. Another time I was waiting for my order at the coffee shop and watching a couple sit down to drink their coffee together. They were a het couple and it still gave me a stupid flutter. I hate myself. Never in my life have I cared to share a beverage with anyone. Not even a fantasy about fucking him. No, a fantasy about buying him a latte.

Fuck.

Now it was Friday again. I found myself wondering if he’d be at the club. Bard was signed on to DJ again, so I had an excuse to go out. _What if he was there? What then, Sebastian, you pathetic bastard?_

Of course he was.

He was standing in the same place, a mixed drink in his hand. I came down the steps, winked at Jesse who seemed fine to let me in for free being that I was Bard’s plus-one, and minded my head as I entered the dancefloor. When I looked up again there he was in my eye line. I didn’t even have to search.

Bard was already in the DJ booth, chatting with the current guy as he finished up his set. Again I was grateful for a night out that didn’t require finding a way to double park a delivery van in Brooklyn to unload tons of music gear. Bard gave me a meaningful look and motioned for a beer by holding his empty upside down. I nodded and made my way through the relatively small crowd to the bar.

Before I could get Mickey’s attention, I noticed a small shadow creeping into the corner of my eye and felt an annoying flutter of excitement. At the same time, I had to stop walking to avoid running into a girl teetering in platform boots who chose that moment to cut in front of me. Unfortunately, that resulted in a collision between his body and mine.

“Pardon me,” he said almost too quietly to hear over the bar noise.

“My fault,” I said and gestured for him to pass me to get to the bar. That’s when Mickey saw me and ignored the kid completely. Bad luck being short, I guess. “What are you having?” I asked.

“Oh. Vodka and cranberry,” he said holding up his little empty cup.

“And a Cape,” I shouted at Mickey as he handed me two open beers. He nodded and set to making the drink while taking another order like the pro he was.

“You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” I leaned back against the bar and took a sip from my beer, more carefully regarding him. I had been thinking of him and now here he was, living and breathing and standing in front of me with a slightly concerned look on his face. He was exquisite, barely real, but obviously not a figment of my imagination. I handed him the drink when Mickey placed it on the bar beside me, a little lime wedge and tiny straws and all. “Is that alright?” I asked.

He took a tentative sip through the straw and nodded. “It’s good, yes.”

“I bet he makes his drinks strong.”

“Yes,” he nodded again. This was going so well.

“You gave me a clove cigarette last week,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You’re friends with Bard’s redhead?”

“Mey-Rin? Yes.”

“You’re not much for volunteering information, are you?”

“No, I suppose not.” He was silent for a moment, then, “My name is Ciel.”

“Sebastian,” I said feeling a smirk start to turn my mouth.

“You’re an artist?”

“Yes,” I said treating him to his own tactics.

“What sort of art do you make?” he asked, taking another drink. Perhaps fortifying his courage.

“Bard didn’t tell you? I’m a tattoo artist.”

“Oh.” He seemed to think on that for a moment, probably wondering what sort of person I was or if my claim at being an artist was a valid one.

“Do you have any?” I asked.

“Tattoos?”

I nodded and watched his face as it went through a series of thoughts that I couldn’t guess at.

“I do.”

“Yeah? What?”

He hesitated and then said, “A pentagram.”

I smiled. _Maybe I shouldn’t?_ But my mouth was already talking. “Where is it? How big?”

He held up his hand to show me his palm. “About that big. On my shoulder. I had it done as a teenager.”

“Just black?”

“Yes. It’s not very good,” he insisted.

Well, that was as much of an opening as I was likely to get. “I’ll fix it for you if you want. Come see me tomorrow and keep me company and I can take a look.” I took a card out of my pocket and handed it to him. “I’m working alone so I’ll be bored as hell.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said. I still couldn’t fathom what he was thinking, but this seemed the closest to a yes that I would get. He excused himself to scuttle back to the safety of his corner where the redhead was waiting. I dutifully took the beers to the DJ booth.

“What took you so long?” Bard asked.

“Line at the bar.”

He drained half the beer before belching and then switched the mic on as the industrial track came to an end.

“Hey kids! It’s about to get freaky up in here,” Bard announced. “This is your friendly neighborhood DJ Flamethrower, and I am going to educate you fuckers in your gothic roots.”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.

The first track that slithered over the sound system of a choice bit of Siouxsie and the Banshees, _Nightshift,_ wherein the crowd had a collective pause of confusion at the shift of music, taking away the repetitive industrial assault and replacing it with the dark and sultry gothic music. A little punk, a lot of sex, and of course copious amounts of darkness.

“You know this song is about the Yorkshire Ripper?” Bard said, finishing off his beer and pushing the empty into my chest. “Nothing like a little necrophilia for a Friday night.”

“Am I just here to be your drink bitch all night?” I asked.

“Duh, isn’t that how it usually is?”

“At least I don’t have to sit through your shitty band anymore.”

Bard made a face and I went back to the bar like the bitch that I was. Of course I couldn’t resist glancing at Ciel as I passed his dark corner. He did his best to ignore me, but I caught his eye for a brief moment before he became suddenly interested in watching the new patrons getting their hands stamped for entrance.

I had a moment to think as I waited for Mickey to come back with a new case of beer. Apparently he was without a bar back and having to haul supplies in from the back room and tend bar, and I was without my common sense. I was going to be working alone tomorrow. The shop would be wonderfully quiet, only me there to open up. I’d probably come in a bit late depending on how many beers I put back tonight, and sit and drink my coffee while I did a little sketching. Then I had one client coming in at noon for a leg tattoo that would take me probably an hour and a half, top whack if I really took my time. After that, I’d be sitting there until 8 pm, waiting the clock out until I could close the shop and see what Bard had burnt for dinner.

That had been the plan until I opened my big mouth and invited Ciel to stop by. Now I had no idea what to expect from the day. Absolutely worst case scenario, I would be anticipating him every time I turned around and he’d never show up. Best case, what? He’d show up.

Fuck.

I set the fresh beer next to Bard who was deep in his music archives, headphones on and a look of grim determination on his face. The dancefloor was not as packed as it had been during the previous DJ’s set, and I could tell Bard was intent on fixing this. A wicked grin spread across his grizzled mug as the next track started up with a familiar chorus of angelic voices that caught nearly everyone in the club, pulling them by invisible wires until they were all ready for the drum machine to kick in. _Hey, hey, hey, a hey, now, now, now, now…give me the ring…._

“Must…dance…” I put down my beer and moved zombie-like to the floor to join what felt like a trance that had fallen over the tribe. I let the familiar song wash over me and just moved my body. Slow, smooth, and cathartic. A girl came to dance beside me and I grabbed her hand and pulled her in to me. Another girl joined us, and I was soon in the middle of a swarm of writhing bodies.

_Sing this corrosion to me…_

I lost track of myself and who I was touching and dancing with. It felt so good to just let go and feel the music and move. At some point I looked up to see a flash of red hair, recognizing Bard’s friend, Mey-Rin, as she hip-checked a body into my path. My hand reflectively stopped the body before it stumbled into me, grasping a slim hip. My fingers dug into a leather belt and snug denim, spinning the body around and moving it to the beat as I continued to dance. Only, this awkward body, this slim creature was in fact Ciel. I let my hand linger on his hip and continued to sway, forcing him to move with me. I looked down, caught that one brilliant blue eye and saw that he was regarding me with a mixture of horror and embarrassment. I couldn’t help but let a delighted smirk spread across my face. I pushed my hip into him and then caught his hand and pulled him back to me, a repeated move that was almost like dancing. And not a little like something else that was starting to occupy my thoughts. He didn’t struggle, and in fact seemed to give in to the movement, and dare I say, actually dance with me.

The song ended, but Bard was prepared and had another classic dance track on deck and there was barely a pause in the beat. Ciel pulled away and I let his hand slip through my grasp.

I saw him say something to Mey-Rin and they both left the dancefloor and went up out of the club.

I waited a bit. Maybe they stepped out for a smoke. But the songs played as Bard forced a music education on the young crowd, and Ciel didn’t return. The night ended with the refrain that Bela was in fact undead, but I wasn’t feeling it. I went to settle my tab and ended up helping Mickey collect empties. I was hauling a few trash bags out through the storage room and out the back door of the bar, when I happened to see a glimpse of red hair. I quickly tossed the bags into the dumpster and jogged around the corner to catch her.

“Hey, Red,” I shouted.

The petite girl turned and smiled when she saw me. “Sup, buddy?”

“Are you headed back inside?” I asked.

“Why? Is Baldroy looking for me?”

“Probably. But I was just wondering where your friend went.”

“Who?” She grinned and put a hand on her hip.

I sighed. Might as well grab the bait. “Ciel.”

“He went home. Why?” That one word was seriously loaded.

“I still have his lighter.” Oh fuck. I’m so stupid.

“Uh huh. You can give it to me if you want. I’ll see him on Monday.”

I took my lighter out of my pocket and handed it over to Mey-Rin and then went back inside while simultaneously kicking myself.

Tomorrow was going to be agony.

 

  

 


	11. So High, So Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciel narrates this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late at night and my wife is drifting in and out of sleep on the couch beside me as I peck away at this chapter. It's quiet, and my headphones are providing me with endless inspiring music, and there's nothing between me and this chapter. It's bliss. Again, tonight and every night for the rest of my writing days, I dedicate this chapter to my muse.

I absolutely hate to be pushed to do what I’m not comfortable with.

When the new DJ came on - Mey-Rin’s ex-boyfriend- she ran over to me and yanked me onto the dancefloor. I really hate dancing. I don’t know what to do with my arms and I feel foolish, but she was so happy and looked like she was having fun. I liked her, that was probably my first mistake.

My second was staying on the dancefloor, because after being lulled into a false sense of comfort thinking we were having a good time and everyone was dancing and not really paying attention to us, the bitch shoved me. Not just a friendly, all be it strangely aggressive push she was so fond of using as a method of greeting, but a proper shove that knocked me off balance and sent me careening into people.

I stopped, thankfully, before I fell on my ass on the dancefloor, because someone had caught me. A hand was on my waist, spinning me around before I could be comfortable and stable on my feet after the trauma I was subjected to. A body pressed against me and I felt myself flush with embarrassment. I looked up to see it was Sebastian who had his hands on me. The most devilish grin spread across his face as we locked eyes. His hand left my hip but caught my hand as I shifted back to create space between us.

Was he trying to dance with me?

He pulled on my hand until I stumbled back toward him, my body bumping into his again. The song continued on with its drum machine onslaught that it was actually pretty hard not to dance to. It was apparent I couldn’t easily escape from my situation, so I gave in and let the giant dance with me. He felt like a line of fire against me, hard flesh through the tightness of the black leather that encased his thighs. I could feel sweat through his t-shirt where he brushed against me and my whole body lit up as bright as the dancefloor.

But why was he doing this? Was it simply because I was there in the moment? I had seen him dancing with several girls just as suggestively as he was dancing with me now. Then again, with the conversation we had earlier, I had the distinct impression that he was flirting with me a little bit. But really, no more than the bartender flirted with me. But, Sebastian had invited me to his tattoo shop, which was probably just a play to get me as a customer, just as Mickey was playing me up for a bigger tip.

Ugh. This was awful. But he was so damn hot, I couldn’t help but want to be pressed against him. Maybe I was just starved for human contact.

When the song, the long, long song, finally came to an end, Sebastian released my hand and I was able to slip away. I didn’t say anything or even turn to see his face again. A wash of embarrassment overpowered me. I managed to get Mey-Rin’s attention and shouted, “Smoke. Now,” loud enough for her to hear. Either she was desperate for nicotine, or she recognized something dramatic was happening. She didn’t question me as we raced up the stairs and out into the cool air outside.

The silence was stifling and made me a bit lightheaded.

“Are you alright?” she asked as soon as we found a place further down the building out of earshot of the other smokers. She crossed her arms over her ample chest and I realized that we had left without our coats. She shifted from foot to foot as I took out a couple of clove cigarettes and lit them for us.

“Yeah. Just confused,” I said.

“What happened?”

I looked her full in the face.

“Yeah, okay. I pushed you into him on purpose. I know you think he’s hot.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Oh please. I know I have thick glasses, but I’m not blind.”

I snorted.

“So what happened?”

“He asked me to go to his tattoo shop tomorrow. He said he was working alone and wanted some company.”

“He asked you while you were dancing?”

“No, earlier. At the bar.”

She looked surprised. “What did you say?”

“I said maybe.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then you shoved me into him.” Her expression was a mixture of amusement and impatience.

“But you guys seemed like you were dancing. That’s good, right?”

“I have no idea. I don’t even know if he’s into guys.” I tried to explain how I was feeling, how I didn’t think he cared who he was dancing with and that he was probably trying to find new customers.

“I think he’s into you.”

“Why?” I asked. I was still choking on waves of embarrassment that were quickly turning to nausea.

“Again. Not blind.”

I snorted.

“I can ask Bard.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Do you think you’ll go to the shop tomorrow?” she asked. I wished I hadn’t said anything about the invite. Now I had to actually think about what I was going to do.

“No, probably not.”

“What? Don’t be dumb.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Duh, that’s the point. This is an excuse to get to know him. You are terrible at this.”

“I don’t think this is meant to be a date situation. He is probably looking for a new client.”

“You really are an idiot. Didn’t he say he would be there alone?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“And he suggested you keep him company?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not a professional scenario. He’s hitting on you. He wants to get to know you alone,” Mey-Rin said. She took a victory drag off her cigarette and then seemed to think of something. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go by yourself.”

“Okay…” I was plunged into confusion again.

“Or you should at least tell me when and where you’re going so I know you’re safe.”

“Now you’re being dumb.”

“I just know Bard and this guy is one of his friends. I don’t know if you should trust him right away.”

I put out my cigarette and shook my head. “I don’t think I’m up for any of this. I’m going to head home.”

Mey-Rin gave me a hug and an extra tight squeeze. “Let me know what you plan on doing tomorrow either way. Just don’t try to call me before noon,” she laughed.

I promised I would text her at the very least, and see her at work on Monday.

Not twenty minutes later, I was just barely walking through my apartment door when my phone went off with a text message.

_“Did you forget your lighter?”_

_“What?”_ I sent back, half paying attention as I flicked on the hall light and removed my shoes at the door. The wooden floors were cold on my feet until I got onto the plush throw rug in front of the couch. Into the dark kitchen, I stumbled blindly rather than blasting on the overhead light. My head was still ringing a bit so I switched on the television for sound as I sank onto the couch and sipped on a bottle of water. After a moment, I heard my phone go off again and remembered Mey-Rin’s text.

_“Sebastian said you left your lighter.”_

I stopped with the bottle of water halfway to my mouth. What the hell was this about?

_“What?”_

The three dots of agony popped up and vanished several times as I waited for Mey-Rin to type a reply.

 _“That’s what I thought.”_ I could almost feel the smug coming through the text message. She obviously thought this proved a point of some sort.

_“What the fuck are you talking about, please?”_

_“I’m on my way over. You’re on Park ST?”_

I paused for a second wondering if I should let her know where I lived.

_“Yes, 62”_

_“Be right up.”_

I always had this feeling that friendships crossed lines when you invited someone into your home. Though, when I lived with Jim, I didn’t want guests over at all. I never knew what sort of mood he would be in. And living alone had made my home feel like my sanctuary. I guess it was time to lean into this friendship. It was about fifteen minutes later when my bell rang. I lived in an older building, but it was outfitted with modern security. A small black and white image of Mey-Rin was on the screen by the door. I pressed the com button, “third floor,” I said and then pressed the door release button.

“Your building has an elevator!” was the first things she said as I opened the door.

“Hello.” I stood aside to let her in.

“Here’s your lighter.” She had a perplexing smile on her face as she handed me a black plastic lighter. I took a closer look at it to see there was a graphic on the side for the Empire State Tattoo Expo.

“Not my lighter,” I said.

“Duh. It’s obviously his lighter.” She kicked off her platform shoes and was shockingly short standing in front of me. Almost as short as me.

“Can I get you some water or something?”

She sat down on the couch and looked around the room for a minute before looking back at me. “This your parent’s place?” she asked.

I brought her a bottle of water though she hadn’t responded to the question and sat down next to her. The new friend in my house.

“No. It’s my place.” I paused for a moment and then decided to keep talking. “My parent’s died when I was a kid.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry. It’s a nice apartment.”

“Not typical for someone our age?” I asked. I looked around at the new furniture, all black or charcoal grey, the minimalist artwork on the walls. It looked a lot like my aunt’s house in Boston actually. Probably because she was heavily involved in decorating.

“My place is a wreck,” she smiled. “So what are you going to do?”

“About?” I was still looking around and thinking about where she lived. What was the apartment of a 25-year-old supposed to look like?

“Tomorrow. Are you going to go? I think you should.”

“Why? If I remember right, you said he wasn’t a good guy and I shouldn’t go.”

“No. What I said was you should be careful. But that was before the lighter incident. Now I think he’s just a nerd and he’s obviously in love with you.”

“Why does a lighter mean he’s in love with me?” I was feeling uncomfortable and confused again. Is this what dating is like? I might do better being alone.

“You really are dense for such a smart guy. Forget about the lighter. It was an excuse to ask where you were. He was fishing for info, which means he’s interested. So you have to go and see what happens.”

Even after my guest had left, it was difficult to get to sleep because my brain was churning away at this information. Did I want to pursue the idea that Sebastian was possibly interested in me? What did I expect to happen? Dating? Sex? I didn’t really know what he would expect, and honestly, this was probably going to result in embarrassment for me in one way or another. Predictably, I woke up with a headache. I sat up in the too bright sunlight that came in through my bedroom window, blinking and trying to find my phone. I had no idea what time I should go to the tattoo shop, or even what the hell I was going to do once I got there. Get a tattoo, I guess?

It was just after one o’clock when I laced up my boots and started the relatively long walk to the tattoo shop. It was cold for October, and I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt and stuffed my hands in the pockets while I walked. By the time I found the place, a second floor shop right above a florist, my face felt icy and I was glad to be inside. Walking up the stairs I could already hear loud music coming from the shop along with the buzz of a tattoo machine. Upon opening the door, I was greeted by a painted mural of a black winged demon holding an attractive young girl in a pink dress and her hair done-up in pigtails. Above the mural was the name of the shop in Japanese characters, and again in English, Kumo Tattoo. There were the usual walls of tattoo flash and a few skulls and vaguely Japanese items distributed around the room. The walls were painted dark red and the wooden trim work was black. It was very clean and tidy for a tattoo shop and if there wasn’t so much artwork on the walls, it could have been an acupuncturist’s office, or maybe a masseuse.

No one was at the counter in the front, but as I peered around the corner I could see a body lying face down on table. Sebastian was bent over the back of his calf working. The hum of the tattoo machine cut through the music that filled the room. I took the opportunity to watch him while he was unaware. His hair was shaved close in the back and he had pushed the longer pieces that framed his face neatly behind his ears. He had on a snug black t-shirt and I could see tattoos on both of his upper arms just peeking out below the shirt sleeves. The muscles of his arms moved as he worked, making my mouth feel dry.

As though he knew he was being watched, he turned around and glanced in my direction. Those strange reddish brown eyes settled on me and he smiled.  

“Hey!” he called over the noise. “I’m just finishing up.” The machine buzzed again as he cleaned off the ink of one color and then dipped it into another, leaning back over the leg to work.

After about five minutes he put down the tattoo machine and wiped off the leg with some paper towels. “I think you’re done, man.” He said to the guy on the table. “Get up and take a look.” The man gingerly got off the table and walked stiffly to the mirror. He seemed impressed with the work. I still couldn’t see from where I stood and decided to busy myself looking through the book of work on the counter while I waited.

“Perfect timing,” Sebastian said as the customer left the shop and he came over to greet me. “That was the only appointment I have for the whole day and I’m stuck here until 8 tonight.” He smiled a smile that made my brain threaten to abandon me.

“Well, I didn’t want you to be bored,” I said lamely.


	12. Assist Me To Walk Away In Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is narrated by Sebastian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freezing in the wild northern woods of America, my muse and I spend our dark days working on our various writing projects. This is a long chapter, particularly by my standards, but my wife deserve it after her patience and for sharing her warmth with me.

Saturday morning. I was up and out of the house as early as I could manage. Bard had fallen asleep on the couch sometime after getting home, burning a grilled cheese sandwich and turning on Netflix. The trail of destruction started in the kitchen and finished at the couch where I can guess that the dog ate the sandwich after Bard had fallen asleep, before then falling asleep itself on top of him. I couldn’t be sure which of them was contributing to the funk in the living room, but either way, I wasn’t going to be around to smell it, or to clean up after them.

My Saturdays at the Crypt used to start sometime around 3 pm. The Undertaker was not much of a daylight person and would almost keep third shift hours. His apartment was nearly across the street allowing him to drift in like a shadow once the sun started to sink. In the last few years, I opened the shop myself. I checked the daily appointments and listened to the answering machine messages. I never did convince the Undertaker to use email. The Crypt had a website someone had set up on the man’s behalf, but it consisted of a phone number and address under the ominous text “Contact the Undertaker at the Crypt.” I’m not even sure there was a mention of tattoos anywhere on the site. We did get some spectacularly strange messages, which I both looked forward to and dreaded in equal measure.

I did however look forward to those moments when I could turn on some music and just sit for a while and sketch. No one making demands on me, no one trying to talk to me, just a time to drift on a wave of distorted, filthy guitar riffs with a pencil in my hand.

That was the feeling I held onto as I dragged my exhausted corpse into Kumo and turned the key in the lock at the backdoor. The flower shop on the first floor was already open and a flurry of colorful activity. I was hit with a wave of fragrance as one of the workers loaded the delivery van she had reversed to their backdoor. I trudged up the narrow steps to the second floor where Claude had decided to open his shop. We shared the floor with a yoga studio and a small office of some sort. They were quiet neighbors as far as I could tell. Or maybe the walls were thick. No one had complained about my music yet anyway. Aside from Claude.

I got inside and flicked on the lights and set my coffee down just long enough to find the nastiest punk music on my phone. Granted, there was a lot to choose from, but I punched at enough buttons to make music finally come out of the little Bluetooth speaker above my workstation.

Compared to the Crypt, Kumo was small and tidy. It was the perfect size for two comfortable tattoo stations, and a front reception area with a few arm chairs and a front desk. Claude allowed for very little clutter and the decoration that the room had was minimal and tattoo-related exclusively. No bones and no horror movie, funeral-kitsch. The largest piece of art was a mural Claude had painted on the wall directly facing the shop door. His art was so precise and well executed that it was hard to dislike it or find fault. Of course, I was a perfectionist and loved a challenge, and I could easily pick apart his composition choices. He worked almost exclusively within the traditional Japanese tattoo style and was often considered one of the most desirable experts outside of Japan. The mural was just a larger expression of what could have been a back piece, expanded and applied to the wall rather than the skin. The piece had a handsome demon, fierce and full of fire, sharp teeth and wild eyes, holding in his thickly corded arms a beautiful, albeit anime-inspired girl in a pink dress and long curly pigtails. Looking at it again, I could imagine the painting as the cover of a gothic manga. It was certainly dark and just a little wicked. It made me wonder what sort of secrets that nerd was keeping.

Also, why a girl? Who was he trying to pander to with that artistic choice? Maybe it was a skinny boy in drag.

Behind the desk, I pulled out the laptop to check the appointments, still just one for today. I would have plenty of time for Ciel if he came. Though, after he left the club last night without so much as a glance in my direction, I wasn’t so sure I would see him. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping for at this point.

Coffee close to hand, I opened up the digital file Claude had prepared for today’s client, an overflow appointment he tossed my way. The name on the appointment was “Joker.”  There were a few images of skeletal hands, both photographic and illustrated, as well as a variety of juggling equipment. The note said that the client wanted a skeletal hand holding a ball between each finger, all in different colors. The placement was calf. Not too big, but not so small I couldn’t get some amount of detail into the piece.

I leaned back and put my feet up on the desk, and with my sketch pad in my lap, I started to work out a design. Though, I didn’t have the access to actual human remains here that I did at the Crypt, but I figured I could do alright with photographic references. I didn’t look up again until the bell above the door chimed and my client walked in.

He was slender with orange hair, pulled back from his face and fanned into a crest of spikes behind his head. Black lined purple eyes looked at me appraisingly, before the face cracked into a smile. I took my feet off the desk and stood, extending my hand.

“You must be Joker,” I said.

“And you must be Sebastian. Wonderful to meet you,” Joker said, shaking my hand and smiling warmly. “Please excuse my appearance, I just left rehearsal.” He shrugs out of a purple jacket and I can see he’s wearing a white t-shirt over a pair of athletic shorts.

“Come on in and get comfortable,” I said gesturing to the two leather armchairs opposite of the front desk. “I’m about ready with a sketch for you to take a look at.”

Joker shook out his jacket with a flourish and placed it on the back of one of the chairs before taking a seat. It took me another few moments to clean up the sketch enough to feel it was ready for viewing.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

His lips curled immediately into a broad smile when he saw the page in my hand. “Yes, that’s exactly right,” he said nodding. “Can we have color? Lots of color?”

“Of course. Still thinking right calf?” He nodded again. “Go ahead and hop up on the table and I’ll get the stencil ready.”

The tattoo goes smoothly. I found my rhythm quickly once I got started, the way I always do. Like drawing, the needle becomes my entire focus. Some clients sit well and slip into their own quiet meditation while they’re being tattooed, others insist on filling the silence with chatter. Yet others forget or maybe misunderstand that tattooing involves a bunch of needles forcibly piercing and dragging across the skin for hours on end. Or perhaps they miscalculated their tolerance. Joker seems happy to stay in his own space and leave me to mine, which suits me just fine.  

The bell over the door rang, just barely loud enough to hear over the noise of the machine and the music. I have an embarrassing moment where my heart speeds up thinking that Ciel actually came, but when I pause tattooing and turn, and see the tentative figure lingering in the doorway, I have to choke down my excitement.

“Have a seat,” I shouted. “I’m just finishing up here.”

I made myself move slowly, despite my desire to rush, and finished adding color to each of the juggling balls. I hit each with a bit of highlight to make the color really pop knowing it would please my client. A spray of skin disinfectant on a fresh towel to clean up the canvas and I touched Joker’s shoulder to pull him out of his reverie.

“You’re all set, man. Come take a look.”

I can tell he’s a little sore as he gets up, but he lights up when I hand him the mirror and he catches a glimpse in the full length glass on the wall.

“This is exactly what I was thinking. You, my friend, are amazing.”

Not only did I receive a tip, but a set of tickets to a circus performance. Apparently the guy really was a juggler with a traveling troop. I filed the tickets away and went to meet my next client.

“Perfect timing. That was my only appointment today.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to be bored,” Ciel said with a small smile. “Is it usually slow here on Saturdays?”

“Not when Claude is here. He has appointments booked six months in advance. I was hoping to catch more of his overflow, but it’s been a bit hit or miss.”

“So this isn’t your shop?” he asked looking around.

“I am a guest artist at Kumo. My home shop is in Brooklyn.”

I realized this was the first time I had seen him in the daylight. His face was delicate, soft features, a small mouth prone to brief crooked smiles, and one large blue eye. His other eye, I noticed again, was covered with a black patch. He was short, but not too short. Just enough that I had to fight the urge to pick him up.

“Let’s get a look at this pentagram and see what we’re dealing with,” I said.

He had a bit of shyness about him so I did my best to appear occupied elsewhere as he unzipped his hooded sweatshirt and put it across the back of a chair before he pulled his t-shirt over his head. He takes a moment to fold his t-shirt and place it on top of his sweatshirt on the chair. I watch the careful way he moves; the way his belt hangs lows on his hips. His shoulder blades are sharp as he turns to let me see his back. I can’t stop myself from tracing the edges of the faded black design of the tattoo with my fingertips, checking for scar tissue, I lie to myself.

“Is it bad?” he asked.

“No. Not bad.” It wasn’t much of anything but a solid black outline of a five-pointed star shoved inside of a circle. Some jerk of a tattooer had rubbed this unimaginative flash image into his teenage skin and now it was just a blemish on his otherwise perfect shoulder.

I tried not to be overly critical when talking to customers about their tattoos. Honestly, if I –or the Undertaker, or even Claude- didn’t put it on them then I probably found something wrong with it. There was a lot of room to mess up someone’s skin. Granted, every tattoo artist I knew, myself included, had some real shit tattoos. That’s just part of being young and learning. What I could do, and what I did do, was determine if a tattoo could be fixed and then do my best to turn it into something I didn’t mind having my name on.

So, when I looked at Ciel’s tattoo, what I saw was a blank canvas, essentially a green light to make my own wicked design if he would grant me permission.

“What would you recommend? I don’t have much experience in this arena,” he said.

“I would like to sketch something for you, if you trust me.”

“Sketch?” he asked curiously.

I grabbed a handful of Sharpies in different colors from the jar of pens on the desk. “I can sketch on you if you trust me.”

He considers me, watching me carefully as I bite the cap off of a purple pen and wait for his permission to proceed. “Trust is not usually a strength of mine.”

“This part doesn’t hurt,” I say with what I hope is a comforting smile, but reads probably closer to a smirk.

“I'm curious to see what you can do.” Having granted me permission, he turns to show me his back again, dropping his arms and standing perfectly straight and still.

I’m happy that he isn’t making this too easy for me, though I still don’t know what my end goal is. I do know that I want to put my hands on him and I selfishly want it now, which is why I opted for the markers and not for the sketch book. I wanted to let him inspire the work and to do that, I had to have my hands on him. The ink is as bright on his skin as it would be on a sheet of paper and I fall easily into working my lines, my hands already knowing what they want to do.

“Why’d you pick a pentagram?” I asked.

“Oh. Well, I was somewhat intrigued by the idea that Paganini sold his soul. The pentagram, or a tetragrammaton, is a sign of the pact with the devil. Usually the more prominent the sign is, the stronger the bond.” It was the most I’d heard the kid say since I met him.

“Did you sell your soul?” I asked.

“Do you believe in such things?” he asked with a small smile.

“This world’s a strange place. I don’t discount the existence of a soul. Or the devil for that matter.”

“I wouldn’t have marked you as a philosophical type,” he said. Cheeky.

“Why? Because I tattoo people for a living?”

He laughed, dry and fitting to his smile. “I think it’s the accent, honestly.”

“Not much I can do about that.” I switch pens and start to work with red ink. I let my non-dominant hand settle against the back of his neck, feeling the soft hair under my fingers, something I wouldn’t do with another client, but I just can’t help myself. I feel like I need to hold onto him now that I have him. “How long have you played?” I asked.

“What?”

“You mentioned Paganini. I figured you wouldn’t have sold your soul for no reason. You must be a good violinist.”

“Fifteen years,” he answered.

“And how is that demon been treating you?”

That crooked smile again. “Are demons an interesting subject for you?” he asked.

“I’ve been told I resemble one on more than one occasion.”

“I’m not sure if I find that comforting coming from someone who is planning on filling my back full of needles.”

“I prefer the medium of pleasure, I’m afraid. Though, it would be a lie if I said I didn’t enjoy my craft. Everything worthwhile comes with a little pain.”

I could see his face flush with color though it was turned away from me. I smiled a crooked smile of my own.

The sketch was done and I had Ciel turn to look in the mirror. “Don’t worry about the color, that’s just for my reference. I would keep it black and grey. It looks good against your pale skin.” I can’t keep the last part to myself. I’m eating him up with my eyes, he has to see that.

He’s silent for a long moment, moving the hand mirror around to really take a look at what I’ve marked onto his shoulder. The blue eye rolls over to look at me. “Is this what you’d like to tattoo on me?” he asked.

Ice cold. I can’t really read him, but I’m confident in my work. I’ve transformed the pentagram to the body of a violin, matched the curve of his shoulder with the scroll of the headstock. It’s elegant, and it fits the canvas perfectly. I know that when I put in the ink it will be a perfect cover up and a beautiful tattoo. “Yes, I would love to tattoo this on you.”

He makes me wait another moment as he regards me, and then smiles his tiny crooked smile. “I would love to have this tattooed on me.”

“Cool. Let’s do it.”

“Shall I get up on the table?” he asked.

My body is moving before I know what I’m doing. I’m committed as my hand reaches to touch the side of his face as he looks at me. He’s so very solemn and I know that I’m smirking as I look at him. “If I were to kiss you, would you still be so serious?” I asked.

“Are you flirting with me?” he asked.

Rather than answer, I lean in closer, pausing just a moment, before pressing my lips to his. I feel it instantly; he’s surprised but his lips part just enough to encourage the action. I can feel the warmth of his naked torso and I breathe in deep the smell of him, faint hits of lavender and black tea along with the clove cigarette he probably smoked on the walk over here. My body reacts like a fucking teenager’s, the thrill of the kiss driving right to my cock. I’m hungry for him and I know I could devour him right there, where he stood, bare-chested in the middle of the shop. I want it to be just a quick peck, but as soon as I pull away, I am dipping back down to kiss him again. He’s ready for me this time. His hand reaches for my hip and his fingers dig into me, pulling me closer until our bodies press together. My tongue traces his lower lip, pulling it into my mouth and I feel him moan, so softly, just a rumble in his chest where it presses against me. I have to force myself to separate from him.

“You are flirting with me,” he says, his voice quiet and a little breathy.

“I am,” I admitted.

He watched me for a moment, an agonizingly long moment, his face turned up to mine, his fingers still gripping my hip, our bodies still touching. The room was silent except for the guttural snarl of the punk music still playing from my tattoo station. I was acutely aware of every part of me that was touching every part of him and did my best to not move a muscle until he did.

“And this was an invitation to get to know you, rather than a tattoo appointment,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

His fingers squeezed my hip and I grunted, having to close my eyes for a just a moment. He felt so unbelievably good pressed against me. It took most of my self-control to not grind against him. That one blue eye held me like a fucking magnet.

“I would still like to tattoo you. If you’ll allow me.” My voice was deeper than I would have liked it to be with the effort it took me to maintain my composure. Did I want him because I found him attractive, or because he was giving me the cold shoulder? Somehow I blamed William for conditioning this behavior.

“You are a strange man,” he said, releasing my hip and walking over to the tattoo bench. He lay down on his stomach and arranged his arms under his head, looking entirely too comfortable as I stood like an idiot trying to pull myself together and calm the persistent throbbing in my jeans.

Without another word I went about putting my tattoo station together and settled in to begin his tattoo. Ever the consummate professional, I behaved as though this was a typical tattoo client and I was just doing my job, though my body was screaming at me to flip him over and satisfy my hunger.

“I have a fairly light hand,” I begin the words that I usually say as I being to tattoo a person for the first time, “But if you need a break, just let me know.”

Ciel makes a sound to acknowledge my statement and then settled in as I put needle to flesh and began my work. My brain was churning like waves in a tempest and I barely heard him when he finally spoke again.

“Did you just kiss me?” he asked.

I laughed, pausing the machine for a moment and wiping the canvas down. “Yes, I did.”

“Oh.”

“Is that alright?” I asked.

“Are you planning on doing it again?” he asked.

I rested a gloved hand on the small of his back and shifted myself so I could see his face. He had turned his eye to look at me, his head still cradled in his arms on the table. “I would like to.” I said.

“I think I would like that too,” he said finally.

He seemed to relax, his body settling onto the table and resting under my hands as I worked. He began to talk more freely, asking what music was playing, how long I had been tattooing, how long I had been in Portland. His voice was soft and pleasant and I genuinely enjoyed tattooing him and didn’t mind being outside of my own quiet space while I worked. The time went quickly and easily. He didn’t flinch or make any sounds of pain as I worked. The brightly colored marker ink was replaced with shades of black and grey until the tattoo was complete, and I wiped the final bits of excess ink from his skin.

“You’re done,” I said. I looked at the clock and realized that three and a half hours had passed since I began working on him. He winced as he started to move. “Easy. Take it slow,” I cautioned. I had seen more than one person try to get up too fast and pass out, or fall. I took off my gloves and grabbed his elbow as he stood. Once he reached the floor-length mirror, I handed him a hand mirror again so he could see his shoulder.

I expected him to make me work for a reaction. I expected a cold response, maybe a shot from his ice-cold blue eye before he gave me any little bit of praise. I wasn’t expecting him to put down the mirror and hook a finger in my belt and pull me to him so hard that I crashed into his petite body. I caught myself on the wall behind him before I pressed his freshly tattooed shoulder into the wall. He reached up, pulled my face down to him and kissed me. Kissed me like he needed the oxygen from my lungs, and that he would drown without it.

It was then that I heard the bell above the door ring followed by the unmistakable sound of Claude clearing his throat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. One Broken Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is narrated by Ciel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was a bit of a gift. I wasn't expecting to have an extra day off of work, or an extra day to spend with my wife, so it only seems fitting that I provide her with some reading material. When I pictured what married life would be like, I hoped that it would be the two of us sitting side by side working on our various writing projects, little furry bundles of cat and dog sitting between us. What more could a girl want?

“Did you decide?” Mey-Rin asked. She was nasally on the phone and it sounded like she had me on speaker. I could hear another female voice in the background.

“Is there someone else there with you?” I asked.

“Just my roommate. She’s not listening,” Mey-Rin said.

In the background I hear, _“Mey, is that your new boyfriend?”_

“Sound like she is,” I said.

“Lizzy, I’m having a private conversation,” Mey-Rin yelled away from the phone.

_“Is he cute? Do you have a pic?”_

A pause. “Yeah, actually he is pretty hot. Hold on.” There was a shuffling while I guessed that Mey-Rin was fiddling with her phone to find a picture.

“Wait…why do you have a picture of me? There are no pictures of me.”

_“He’s adorable!”_ the other girl squealed.

“Right?!” Mey-Rin agreed.

“Hello?” I tried again. “Could you take me off speaker and help me? I have no idea what I should do.”

Another shuffle and Mey-Rin’s voice came through more clearly. “Alright, here I am.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t freak out,” she said preemptively.

“I’m not,” I said stubbornly. “I just feel like he’s not interested and that this is a mistake.”

“I mean…” she drifted off for a moment and it sounded like she closed a door. “I would personally go and see what happens. Worst case you go and he’s an awful tattoo artist and you bounce, right?”

“No. I have his card and looked him up online. He’s actually very good. He’s won awards and tattooed all over the world.”

“Wow. Well, new worst case is that he isn’t into you and just wants to tattoo you. No one touches your dick but you get a cool tattoo.”

“Oh my god, Mey-Rin.”

“What? That’s the goal, right?”

“Ugh. I don’t know. Maybe?” I went quiet for a moment. I could hear the television at Mey-Rin’s apartment through the phone. “What if that’s what he wants? Fuck.”

“Look, I get it. You’re still squishy. You got hurt and you don’t know if you’re ready for this yet or if he’s gonna hurt you. But, I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

I took a deep breath. “Yeah?” I asked when I was ready to hear what she had to tell me.

“He’s just a person. Just like you. He’s probably been hurt before and is also squishy about something. I know he’s really hot and seems kinda unreal and god-like…”

“Thanks.”

“But, so are you. Ciel, you’re a fucking hottie. Don’t forget that.”

“No…” I started to protest but she cut me off.

“Yes! You are a grade-A piece of ass. I don’t know who fucked you up or what’s going on with your hurty parts – we’ll get to that next time we go drinking – but you are both sexy and smart and he knows it.”

“So, you would go?” I asked. I still held out hope she would give me permission to not go.

“You have to go. You need to know what happens and you need to tell me so I can live vicariously through you.”

I slipped off the seat of my couch onto the hardwood floor and into despair. I was not ready for this. Not mentally anyway. My body had a few other ideas, but it had to get past a mighty tangle of anxiety before it could hope for any relief.

“The last time I dated anyone I had two eyes and a bit more confidence.”

“Oh, sweetie. Please don’t be sad. I know that’s your thing, but I promise you it’s not as bad as you think. Plus, the eye patch is kinda sexy. You should get cleaned up, get some clean pants on and get down there.”

“How do you know I’m not already dressed?” I asked looking down at the plaid flannel trousers I had slept in.

“Please. You’re in whatever you slept in last night. I would bet my life on it.”

“Hmph.”

“Go wash your face, drink a bottle of water and get dressed. Text me when you get there so I know you didn’t wimp out.”

“Fine. Good bye.”

“Bye. Love you!” she chirped as I was pulling the phone away from my ear.

Getting ready was the simple part. Even on my weekend or time off work, I tended to dress well. I wouldn’t say that I have nearly the same designer habit as Aunt Anne, but my jeans and sweatshirt were carefully chosen. Very typically black. Once Mey-Rin gave me the direction, I automatically set about completing the action. Leaving the house was a bit harder, but I did it and set off down the sidewalk, headphones in my ears, hands stuffed in the pockets of my hoodie. I treated myself to a single cigarette to calm my nerves as I walked and did my best to think of nothing.

Kumo Tattoo was on the second floor of a row of small shop fronts in a series of brick commercial buildings. A book store, a coffee shop, real estate agent, a used record shop, and finally a florist made up the line. The door beside the florist went to a stairway that lead to the second floor. Immediately, I could hear the faint rumble of music and the buzzing of a tattoo machine. A whiff of disinfectant mingled with the cloying scent of lilies. The florist must be getting ready for a funeral. Maybe it’s for me.

At the top of the stairs, a solid door with “Kumo Tattoo” on a plain plaque was the first door. I pushed it open cautiously, unsure if I should knock, or if anyone would even hear me.

The room inside was small, divided into two distinct sections, one for guests and one for those being tattooed. Immediately in front of the door is a wall painted with a striking floor to ceiling mural. It’s something from a horror film, a monster or a vampire taking its victim. No, it’s a demon holding a girl in his arms. The violence is entirely implied. His claws and teeth are not touching her, nor does she seem to be in distress. In fact, it’s nearly a romantic embrace.

To the right, there’s a desk with a high counter circling it, topped with binders and business cards. The other half of the room almost resembles a doctor’s office, if the doctor had a gothic bent. It’s very sterile with stainless steel counters and shelving, with two tables that looked like exam beds or massage tables. The buzzing of the tattoo machine stopped and I felt my chest get a little tight.

“Have a seat, I’m just finishing up here.” Sebastian called from the portion of the room I couldn’t quite see. I caught a glimpse of a black t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. I could see tattoos on his arms, just peeking out from under his shirt sleeves. There was a body lying prone on one of the massage tables. The machine started up again and Sebastian continued his work. I could see the back of his head, the black hair nearly shaved in the back with longer pieces tucked behind his ears. Just a hint of tattoo showing on the back of his neck, just inside the shirt collar. If the shirt was slightly less fit to his frame, you might not have seen anything. Subtle. It made me almost painfully curious to see what was hidden.

Having to wait gave my nervousness plenty of time to set in and make me feel ill. This felt like an appointment. I took a deep breath of the air tinged with antiseptic and started to creep towards panic.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

_“Are you there?”_ Mey-Rin texted.

“Yes,” I sent back. Waited a moment and then. “I don’t know why I came.”

_“Relax.”_

A photo book sat on a small table between the two chairs in the waiting area, so I flipped through it slowly. The artwork was Japanese, very lovely and elegant. There were no barbwire arm bands or cartoon characters. Everything matched a very specific aesthetic. Looking around the shop I could see the same care and attention to detail. I wouldn’t have thought that such a thing existed, but I realized I was in a high-end tattoo parlor.

The tattooing stopped again and I could hear Sebastian talking to the man who occupied the table. They had a very familiar and easy way of talking that made my stomach tank. He was like this with everyone. So, this probably was just an appointment. I was considering what snide comment to send back to Mey-Rin when I realized the other client had gone and Sebastian was standing in front of me.

“Perfect timing,” he said with a smile that could only been described as a smirk. It seemed to be a default expression for his face. He was tall, so very tall and exceptionally fit.

I had to dig deep to find words to say in reaction to his presence. “I didn’t want you to be bored,” I said. There was a moment of realization that he and I were the only two people in the room. “Is it usually this slow here on Saturdays?”

“Not when Claude is here. He has appointments booked six months in advance. I was hoping to catch more of his overflow, but it’s been a bit hit or miss.”

I nodded and looked around the room again. “So this isn’t your shop?”

“I am a guest artist at Kumo. My home shop is in Brooklyn,” Sebastian said.

My brain had done me the favor of completely deserting me. I had no idea what to say next or what to do with myself. I watched his face, visually traced the sharp edge of his cheekbones and his strong jaw line, cleanly shaved, down his throat to where I thought I could just see a little bit of colored ink around his t-shirt collar.

“Let’s get a look at this pentagram and see what we’re dealing with,” he said.

Ah, yes. The tattoo appointment.

I had the realization that I now had to take off my shirt and I felt my face start to overheat. My sweatshirt came off and I tossed it onto the chair where I had been sitting, the slipped my t-shirt up over my head. I quickly turned my back to show him my shoulder where I knew the old tattoo was sitting, looking faded. I nearly jumped when I felt him touch the tattoo. He’s probably completely disgusted by it. I know it’s not great. I was only 15 when I got it done and the grizzled old man who did it wasn’t nearly as professional or as well-regarded as Sebastian seemed to be. Nor was the shop this clean.

“Is it bad?” I asked.

I swear I heard Sebastian laugh, but I wasn’t facing him and couldn’t be sure.

“No. Not bad,” he said. That was all he had to say about the tattoo. He was quiet for a moment, his warm hand touched the tattoo again and he made a small sound like he was thinking.

“What would you recommend? I don’t have much experience in this arena,” I said hoping to move on to whatever was coming next. I wasn’t sure how long I could stand here with my back to him not knowing what he was doing or what he was thinking.

“I would like to sketch something on you, if you trust me,” he said.

He had a marker in his hand and looked at my back like he was ready to drawn on my skin. “Sketch?” I asked.

He does want to draw on me. I’m curious and slightly horrified by the intimacy of having his hands on me so soon after coming through the door, but I agree. I have to place a bit of trust in him, but the marker isn’t permanent, and would wash off eventually if I didn’t like what he came up with. Ultimately, it was my curiosity that won out, and I turned my back and allowed Sebastian to drawn on my skin.

The questions come, as I suspected they would. “Why did you pick a pentagram,” he asked.

Why did I do anything as a teenager? The entire timeline was incredibly embarrassing when I thought back on it now. I had a tendency to be miserable and moody now, but I felt I had stabilized in my 20s. Of course, leaving my ex had a lot to do with that new found stability. I gritted my teeth and gave a quick explanation to the tattoo.

“I was somewhat intrigued by the idea that Paganini sold his soul. The pentagram, or a tetragrammaton, is a sign of the pact with the devil. Usually the more prominent the sign is, the stronger the bond.”

“Did you sell your soul?” He asked.

Interesting question. In a way, I’m sure I did. I sold my soul for a lot of things in the past. I sold my soul for love, even if it was fleeting and wholly conditional, and I sold my soul for peace when I thought I would never feel it again. But I didn’t ever expect my violin to give that to me, even if I used it as a tool to soothe myself.

“Do you believe in such things?” I asked.

“This world’s a strange place. I don’t discount the existence of a soul. Or the devil for that matter.”

It wasn’t the sort of answer I was expecting. I still didn’t really know what to think of Sebastian. On the surface, he seemed a bit like a meathead. Big, muscular, thick Brooklyn accent. On one level, I don’t think I expected him to be intelligent, and I realized that was a real failing of character on my part. He watched me with very inquisitive eyes, amused at the conversation, quick and clever with his replies. I realized that he would have no trouble keeping up with me.

“I wouldn’t have marked you as a philosophical type,” I admitted.

“Why? Because I tattoo people for a living?” Oh good. I had successfully insulted him.

“I think it’s the accent, honestly,” I said.

“Not much I can do about that.”

He continued to sketch on my skin, his fingers touching my back lightly. At one point I thought he touched my hair, but I figured it was an accident, even though the touch lingered for a moment. It sent a little thrill through me, a shiver from my neck down to the pit of my stomach.

“How long have you played?” he asked. “You mentioned Paganini. I figured you wouldn’t have sold your soul for no reason. You must be a good violinist.”

I tried not to let on the surprise I felt when he figured out my instrument and just answered the question. “Fifteen years.”

“And how is that demon been treating you?” I caught a glimpse of his face and the smirk that twisted his lips. He seemed to be playing with me.

“Are demons an interesting subject for you?” I asked.

“I’ve been told I resemble one on more than one occasion.”

Now, that I believed. He certainly had a wicked streak in him, whether that was only for looks, or if it extended to other aspects of him, I wasn’t sure yet. His banter was slightly sexual in nature, and he had a way of looking at me that made me feel like I was an item of prey rather than a customer. Was I reading too much into this?

He finished his sketching and handed me a small mirror that I could angle and see my shoulder in the full length mirror. The drawing was done in several colors, purple, red and blue lines stretching from the top of my shoulder, around my shoulder blade and to the middle of my back. The entire thing was probably eight inches long and about six or so wide.  The pentagram was now the body of a violin, flanked by the F-holes which now looked like occult script in the composition. The neck and elegant scrolled head rested across my shoulder blade, ending just at the top of my shoulder. It was not at all what I was expecting and I was impressed by both the skill and the idea that he had come up with and executed so quickly.

“Don’t worry about the color, that’s just for my reference. I would keep it black and grey.”

“Is this what you’d like to tattoo on me?” I asked.

“Yes, I would love to tattoo this on you.” I could feel the confidence in his words and I found myself immediately consenting to having the tattoo. I knew I wanted it as soon as I had seen it. I walked into this having no idea what to expect, but if this was the only thing that came out of the day, it would be worth my while.

“Shall I get up on the table?” I was resigned to my decision and feeling relatively at peace with it when Sebastian threw another element into the encounter.

I sensed movement in him before he actually moved. His hand reached up to touch the side of my face and I was forced to look at him. Not sidelong, not from over my shoulder, or in the dark of the club, but close and direct. I don’t know what I must look like. Confused? Alarmed? Panicked?

“If I were to kiss you, would you still be so serious?”

It took probably too much time for me to understand what he was saying. “Are you flirting with me?” I asked.

He didn’t answer, but leaned closer to me, his lips hesitating above mine for a soul-crushing moment before they finally touched. I became immediately aware that I was still standing in the middle of the shop, half-naked, with my bare chest almost pressed against him. The kiss was brief, and Sebastian pulled away. My eye was closed, and my lips apart. I hung for what seemed like an eternity before his lips touched mine again. I took the opportunity to return the kiss, my hand shot out to grab his waist to keep him close. I was hungry for him, and he felt so good. I would have eaten him from the mouth down if I could, but he stopped again before I had the chance.

“You are flirting with me,” I said. My brain had fled my body.

“I am,” he admitted. He stood perfectly still, watching me from mere inches away. I realized that I was still holding onto him, digging my fingers into the denim of his hip. I loosened my grip enough so he could easily move away if he chose. He didn’t. I squeezed a little tighter and he made a sound that shot directly to my groin with laser accuracy.

“And this was an invitation to get to know me, rather than a tattoo appointment?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I would still like to tattoo you. If you’ll allow me.”

I want to laugh. I’m confused, but intrigued. I don’t know what was expected of me now so I let go of Sebastian and walked over to the tattoo bench to lay down on my stomach. He’s quiet but began to get his equipment ready to work. I’m not sure what that entails, but I heard the opening of drawers and the sliding of a metal tray. There was a sweet chemical smell of disinfectant.  

I’m almost in a state of quiet meditation by the time he comes to sit beside me and speaks. “I have a fairly light hand, but if you need a break, just let me know.”

I was immediately gone. The sting of the needle jumping into my skin for the first time activated something very soothing in my brain. I was quiet and passive as he worked. I didn’t register my own voice when I began speaking again.

“Did you just kiss me?”

He actually laughed. The tattoo machine stopped for a moment and he wiped at my back with something cold. “Yes, I did.”

“Oh.”

“Is that alright?” he asked.

“Are you planning on doing it again?” I wanted to know.

He was silent for a moment and then leaned down so he was face to face with me. I turned my head to see him more clearly. His eyes were the most unusual shade of brown. They were nearly red in the sunlight. “I would like to,” he said.

“I think I would like that too,” I said. And I meant it. I wanted to have another moment with this man, whatever it was. It seemed that saying so unlocked something in me. As excited as I was, I was also subdued under his hands as he tattooed, unable to fidget or move. It became an introspective experience and I found that my anxiety had lessened and I was speaking more easily, building a very enjoyable rapport with Sebastian.

I was surprised when it was finally done and Sebastian told me it was time to stand up. My heart started to hammer in my chest again; my anxiety popping up like a jack-in-the-box. When I began to stand up I felt a stabbing pain in my back and a searing heat in my shoulder. The skin felt like it was on fire.

“Easy. Take it slow,” Sebastian said, grabbing my arm and helping me down from the table. He steadied me as I got to the mirror, perhaps a bit too cautiously, and handed me the mirror again so I could see my back. It was red and irritated, but the ink was black and vibrant against my skin. I could see the image that he had sketched, only now it had depth and shade to it. It was a finished and wonderful piece of art that fit my body perfectly. I really was pleased. I really was glad to have a tattoo from this talented, well-regarded artist.

However, I couldn’t manage to focus enough on that fact to say anything. I had angled the mirror so that I could see him standing behind me. I saw his face, his fucking handsome face that was watching me with those strange red eyes and that smirk that I was already beginning to fall for. I put down the mirror and hooked a finger through the belt loop of his jeans, pulling him to me with as much force as I could manage with my incapacitated shoulder. His body collided with mine, and he shot an arm above my head, the palm slapping the wall above my head before he crushed me. My other hand reached up for his face and pulled it towards me until his lips finally touched mine again. It was all I could think about, it was all I wanted in that moment and I was not going to be denied. Pain, or no pain.

I didn’t register anything had changed in the room at first. I felt Sebastian’s body tense and then he pulled away from me too quickly, leaving me gasping for breath as though he had stolen it from my lungs. I looked around feeling like I had woken from a dream, and realized someone else was in the shop.

 


	14. Figure It Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It didn’t bother me to be caught in a towel, I was fine with my body and never felt particularly naked covered in tattoos, my visual camouflage. Nor did I have any shame in being caught fucking, after all, what’s there to be ashamed of?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me about two weeks to write and stitch together. After taking an entirely too long hiatus from writing fiction, my wife and I both have had a surge of creativity. She's sat with me, listened to me, talked with me and laughed with me every single day as we went through story ideas and bounced dialogue off each other. She's the best writing partner I could ever hope for. Not to mention the real-life inspiration she so dutifully provides. With that, I will forever dedicate my work, my time and my heart to her.

There was the unmistakable sound of steady light feet coming up the stairs. Ciel was just leaning into me, primed for another kiss, his face flushed. I put a hand on his bare chest and pushed him back just as he started to come in for another kiss. The look of disappointment was sudden and severe and it made my chest hurt.

“Fucking hell, Claude,” I muttered. I backed away just as the shop door opened and the bespectacled shop owner strode in. He took in the scene; Ciel shirtless and freshly tattooed, me flushed and sweaty, probably looking guilty as fuck.

 “Hop back on the table and I’ll get you bandaged up and we can talk about some aftercare,” I said to Ciel flatly.

“Sebastian?” Claude threw my name out with a question mark.

“Yes, dear?”

“I know I’ve mentioned this before. Could you please not play this loud music in the shop? It’s not appropriate and it could be unsettling to clients.”

“Do you find this music unsettling?” I asked Ciel over my shoulder as I pulled on a fresh pair of gloves.

“Not at all. I enjoyed myself,” Ciel said.

“Is this a walk-in?” Claude asked.

“Yes, this is Ciel. I did a little work on his back this afternoon.”

“Finished or making another appointment?” Claude asked as he flipped through the appointment book.

“Not sure just yet,” I said. I knew full well this was about to fall one way or the other depending on Ciel. I didn’t have a clear reading on the kid yet, but the ambitious way he kissed was encouraging. Hopefully Claude wasn’t enough of a wet blanket to snuff that out just yet.

I applied a fresh coating of A&D ointment to his tattoo and carefully laid a piece of plastic wrap down. Claude came over to glance over my shoulder as I secured the bandage with some tape.

“Stencil?” he asked, knowing full well that it wasn’t. He resented that I could work freehand.

“Nope,” I admitted.

He exhaled audibly and walked back to the desk, probably to enter another demerit under my name.

“I have two clients coming in for 7 tonight. I’m going to need you to stay late,” he said not even looking in my direction again. So that’s it. That’s the bit of bullshit he came here to drop on my lap.

“Fuck you.” It seemed like the most reasonable response.

“Again, language in the shop.”

“What if I had plans?” I asked. I was really hoping that I did.

“You have a chance to make a bit of cash and make some connections with future clients. That’s what you need if you want to gain a reputation in this field.”

“Really, Claude? Is that what I have to do to get clients? Tell me more about working in the tattoo industry.”

“I think you quickly forget how this all works,” he said simply and shut his appointment book with a smug bit of flourish.

I bit my tongue remembering that I had already botched my first impression with the only guy to get my attention since, well, since I left New York. It still unnerved me how similar Claude was to Will. And oddly how similar Ciel was to both of them in his own way. Fuck me if I didn’t have a type I guess. Looking at Ciel I wondered if he was he just more trouble. 

Fuck did I want to find out.

“What’s the deal?” I asked Claude. Ciel had gingerly pulled his t-shirt back on and looked around for his sweatshirt.

“Couples tattoo. Same design. Should only be about four hours.”

I sighed. Four hours would put me out at 11 tonight, probably later after cleaning up. “Alright,” I conceded finally.

“I’ll get the stencils ready if you’ll prep our stations.”

“Gimme your phone,” I said to Ciel as he edged closer to the door during the terse exchange between Claude and I. “I’ll text you later if that’s alright?” I put my number in his phone and sent myself a message. “I’d like to get a drink after I get out.”

Ciel nodded, still looking a bit confused or conflicted. I attempted a charming smile and ushered him out the door before Claude came back into view. Deep in my calcified ruin of a heart I felt a pang when he left. A free afternoon, just the two of us in the shop, maybe taking a long lunch break to get a coffee, that’s what I had envisioned. Fooling around was an unexpected bonus, but one I was more than willing to explore. Jesus Christ was I grateful that Claude hadn’t waited any longer to barge in. I really don’t know what would have happened. Of course, I would have been more grateful if he had just not barged in at all.

But here we are.

I distracted myself by giving my workspace a thorough cleaning and setting up both stations for the incoming appointments. Claude took his time hunched over the lightbox getting his stencils just right before he made an appearance to greet the new clients. The music was switched to an inoffensive electronic background sound that passed for music in Claude’s world, which thankfully the buzz of our machines drowned out pretty effectively.

It was an easy design to work, colorful koi that I could tattoo in my sleep, though Claude’s design was thoughtfully crafted. I made a mental note to give Claude extra hell on Monday for making me work on the woman when she obviously had more attention for me and my biceps than for her own boyfriend.

When I looked up from my finished work it was already 11:30. I took out my phone and wondered if it was too late to send a message. It was Saturday night. Maybe it would be alright, but I didn’t know how active these small town people were.

_“Hey. Sorry about this afternoon.”_

A message came back only a few seconds later. _“_

_It’s alright. Are you still working?”_

_“Just finishing up. I suppose it’s a bit late for a drink.”_

_“I’m actually not far from the shop,”_ he responded. That little jump in my stomach hit again.

_“I’ll be outside if you wanna meet me,”_ I typed and grabbed my coat. I had a cigarette in my mouth before I made it all the way down the stairs.

This city was still a trip for me. Saturday night just passed 11 and there were only a few people out, walking between restaurants and bars. I could see a little further down the street a show had gotten out and a handful of people lingered outside the concert venue, shooting the shit and smoking. It was still early by New York standards, but I had the sense the evening was already winding down. Given my level of exhaustion, that seemed alright. What was meant to be an easy day turned into a full day of tattooing. As I stood against the building and let the nicotine settle into my bloodstream, I realized how much I didn’t want to go out to a bar. I wouldn’t drink anyway since I had to drive home. I never risked anything that would get me into trouble again.

I was still thinking over my options when I caught a whiff of clove smoke and realized Ciel was there, quietly coming along the sidewalk to stand beside me

“Did you go out drinking?” I asked with a smirk. He looked as sober as he had been that afternoon when I tattooed him.

“Not really, just hanging out with Mey-Rin.”

“Nice.”

“Did you want to get a drink?” he asked. His face was so serious, I’d never seen anything quite like it, even Will cracked a smile once in a while. I was starting to think that I really did have a type.

“No. I’m not really in the mood anymore. I think I’ll just head home,” I said and waited to exhale a long bit of smoke.

“Oh,” he said. I could see the confusion and disappointment flash across his otherwise still face.

“Wanna come with me?”

“Oh.”

I gave him my most charming smile, the one that drove lesser men mad with lust, pushed away from the building and started walking toward my car.

I can be narcissistic, but not without good cause. My smile and manner can coerce even the stubbornest individuals. On more than one occasion I’ve been referred to as a devil, demon, and even an incubus. It was no surprise to see this solemn creature follow me with even this tiniest bit of persuasion. He had trusted me today. Trusted me to come into the shop, trusted me to tattoo him freehand. Trusted me to meet on the street after closing. Why couldn’t I press a bit more to see how much further he would trust me? Following me like a little lamb, through the alleyway and back behind the row of shops where I had left my car earlier that morning. The florist was shut tight but it’s white van was the only other vehicle in the lot. There was a slight hesitation behind me as I bent down to unlock the passenger door of the Mustang for Ciel.

“This is your car?” he asked.

“Not what you were expecting?”

“I guess I was actually expecting to walk because that’s how I got here.”

“I’m afraid I live a little too far for a comfortable walk, but it’s a short drive.”

My fingers itched to turn the key and I reveled in the subtle shift in my passenger as the engine came to life. I took it slow out of the parking lot and through the side streets, waiting for the moment when I reached the onramp and could press the pedal and let the wheels grip the road like they had claws. Ciel made a sound, soft and unintentional, I’m sure, as he was pushed back into his seat by the vehicle’s sudden inertia. A sardonic smile curled my lips and I glanced over to meet his gaze for just the briefest moment before shifting up and taking the empty road.

The onramp was a long stretch followed by a sharp curve before it spilled out onto the highway. I had driven it daily for two weeks now and I knew I could get a bit of speed up and still take the turn hard, accelerating out of it and onto the next long stretch of road.

Traffic was light. It was late enough that everyone had already gone out for the night but early enough that they still had time before last call. Plenty of room to open up and exercise the horses before the next exit. Ciel flexed his hands on his thighs as he watched out the windscreen. Not nervous, but excited. I could see his chest rise and fall with heavy breath and felt a little thrill surge through me. Though it was the car making him pant, I was the cause. I wanted to see him, in his neat clothes and neater manner, completely undone. I needed to take him apart, make a mess of him. Hear him gasp my name.

I gripped the gearshift hard, fingers flexing in my building frustration, and dropped the gear to take the offramp. The exit was dark as we rounded the bridge, cold open water on either side, black as outer space.

“Is this the way to your place?” Ciel asked quietly. We were creeping to an intersection, the last light before I knew I could take a poorly marked street that would bring us along the coast, nice and curvy.

“It’s one way,” I glanced at him briefly catching his blue eye for the quickest second before I made the sudden turn and changed gear, gaining speed. Ciel’s hand shot out and grasped my thigh, fingers digging in hard. The harder I pressed the gas, the harder he dug into me, hand creeping dangerously higher. The car was so responsive to my every whim, but I started to wonder if Ciel was as well.

The steady, kneading of his fingers was slowly traveling, making it harder to ignore the fact that he was inches away from rubbing my cock through my jeans. Cautiously he grazed my belt and ran his hand down across the zipper and I knew I was moments away from absolute madness with this kid. My body was one electric nerve waiting to feel his touch, twice as desperate for not being able to see him while I focused on the increasingly twisty road ahead. A pull on the zipper, just the smallest movement but absolutely no way to deny the intention.

“Sebastian?” his voice was quiet in the loud car but I could hear he was breathing heavy.

“Yes?”

“I think we need to stop.”

My brain went through a few thoughts wondering what exactly he meant until I actually saw the blue light bouncing around in my rearview.

“Fuck.” I carefully slowed to a reasonable speed and pulled to the side of the dark road. I cut the engine and the night was drowning in silence. After an eternity, a police officer walked up to the window.

“This is a fast car you have,” the officer said. “Do you know exactly how fast you were going?” She leaned in closer to take a look at me and my passenger.

“I think I got up to almost 90 on the last straightaway,” I answered truthfully.

“Where are you coming from?” she asked.

“Just leaving work.”

“Work? You have New York plates on this vehicle. Where are you working?”

“I’m an artist,” I answered. “I’ve been working in a gallery downtown for the last few weeks.” I was fighting to stay cool and to not let my annoyance take control of my tongue. I didn’t want to mouth off despite all of my natural inclinations. Ciel sat as still as a statue, looking ahead.

“Do you always keep such late hours?”

“Usually, yes. Not much of a morning person.”

“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

“Nope. Can’t drink at work I’m afraid.”

“As an artist?” she asked with no small amount of incredulity.

“I have my portfolio in the back if you’d like to see,” I offered. It was borderline mouthy and I warned myself to back down. Ciel looked like he wanted to fade out of existence.

“License and registration, please.” Ouch. I guess the conversation was over.

I raised my hips up from the seat, a little higher than was strictly necessary, to get my wallet from my back pocket and then reached over Ciel to grab the registration slip from the glove box. The cop eyed me carefully as she took the items from me and then looked at Ciel who was still sitting perfectly still, not acknowledging either of us.

“Well,” I said after the officer had gone back to her cruiser. “This is fun.” Ciel made a small sound that I couldn’t interpret.

The silence in the dark closeness of the car was overwhelming but I let it sit until the officer came back and handed my paperwork back.

“You’re a long way from home, Mr. Michaelis. What are you doing up here?”

“Working, like I mentioned,” I said.

“As an artist?” she asked. Again.

“Yes, ma’am.” I threw one of my innocent and charming smiles and she held my gaze for a long moment as she seemed to make a decision.

“Try to keep your speed down, Michaelis. This isn’t New York.” She turned and walked back to her cruiser and left us in the quiet of the car again. The silence sat for half a beat before a quiet laugh came from the passenger seat.

“That was brilliant,” Ciel said.

“Could have gone better,” I admitted.

“You didn’t get a ticket. And you were going quite fast.”

“I suppose we should go home now.”

I pulled slowly and responsibly back onto the road and crawled up to 35 miles per hour to cruise around the remaining curves before we got back to the better lit, main streets.

“So, you’re really going to bring me home?” he asked. It was a cheeky comment but it still sent a pang of desire through me. I was bringing him home. And the house would be empty for at least a little while.

How rare it was for me to be in this position. Not my house, for one, but to be bringing someone into my space, even for a few short hours. Really, it had only been William and that hadn’t been a long-term arrangement. I was so used to being a solitary creature that it was strange to even share my space with Bard again though I had lived with him for years during my youth.

The tension in the car was nearly visible by the time I pulled into the quiet driveway. The scene was dark and domestic, a contrast to the loud beast of a car. I took a quick breath and cut the engine. Without even a pause, I opened my door and walked to the house. The sound of the second car door let me know Ciel had followed. Another twinge of excitement.

I kicked off my shoes, maneuvered past the dog who leaped around me, slamming against me in his excitement, and took two beers from the fridge. Ciel stood in the entryway, looking around curiously.

“Just you and Bard live here?” he asked. I handed him a beer and watched as he shifted a little nervously, still not quite daring to come away from the door.

“Yes, and his girlfriend, but she’s out of town.”

“Doesn’t seem like anyone is home,” he observed.

“Nope,” I admitted.

He nodded, taking a tentative sip of his beer. It was almost comically apparent that he was not a beer drinker by the twitch of his lips and the way the bottle moved as far from his mouth as possible without there being a place for him to put it down.

“You can come in, you know,” I said. I tried not to find his nervousness too endearing, but there was something about his proper manner that was so much fun to disrupt and see him struggle to regain his footing. Did that make me a sadist?

Ciel looked up at me, silently. Judging, perhaps. I felt my lips curve into a smile.  

“How’s your shoulder feeling?” I asked.

“It’s a little sore,” he said.

I realized the bandage had been on for hours. Too long. The skin needed to breathe to heal. “You should go hop in the shower, wash it off.”

“I’m sorry?” he said, confusion turning up his features.

“I’ll get you a towel.” I went over to the small bathroom just off the kitchen and fished a big soft towel from the linen closet and called him over with a crook of my finger. “Come on. You need to take care of it. I put a lot of work into you.”

He slowly walked over to me and I ushered him into the bathroom.

“I’ll go grab you a clean t-shirt to put on when you come out.”

“No,” he said quietly.

“No?”

“No. I’m not going to take a shower,” he said. A brief pause while he glared at me, and then a small, certain smile. “Not by myself.”

He stepped into the bathroom, leading me with the power of his sudden certainty.

The nervousness was gone; he’d made his decision about how this encounter would go. Who was I to say no? I followed and closed the door behind me. I had half a breath before Ciel pressed into me, pushing me against the door, his body flat against mine, his hands reaching up to pull me into a kiss. His mouth was hot and so eager to taste me. Perhaps it was the car ride, or the waiting, so much waiting since that afternoon. Maybe my charm was just too much for him and he finally cracked, but whatever the cause, he was determined to have his fill of me now that he had me cornered in that small room, and I was very willing to indulge him.

This was not the time for inner debate. That time had come and gone and the hesitation had been vetoed by the overwhelming desire to devour this beautiful creature from the mouth down. He was so sweet, a creature made of candy. He yielded to me, let me kiss him as fiercely as I dared, but in turn grew impatient if I was too gentle or too cautious with him. It was hard not to be cautious at first. He was so petite. His small cheek was covered by my palm as I touched his face.

I broke away from his lips long enough to kiss the edge of his jaw and down to his throat, relishing the soft moan the action earned me. I let my teeth just barely graze the skin there, took a deep breath of the scent of him and then let him pull me back to his mouth for another long kiss.

A soft, determined hand snuck under my shirt, touching my stomach, running over the tops of my hips and along my ribs. I took the hint and pulled my shirt up over my head. There was a brief pause as Ciel stopped to look at the heavily tattooed skin previously hidden from sight, his fingers touching it tentatively now that he could see all there was to see. Everything from my collarbone to my waist, my arms down to my elbows, and my legs down to my knees were covered in a Japanese body suit, only a moderate space in the center of my body was free of ink.

“How far does it go?” he asked, hooking a finger into the waist of my jeans.

“You first,” I said and waited for Ciel to pull off his own shirt, a little gingerly as he maneuvered around the fresh tattoo. He watched me expectantly, waiting for me to make my next move.

I unbuckled my belt and eased my jeans down slowly, watching his face as he watched me undress. I enjoyed the attention, my god, did I love to see the way he looked at me.

Back against the door, soft-lipped attack, all breath and grabbing hands. My fingers nudged the edge of his eyepatch and he paused for a moment to back away from me. There was a quick consideration on his face while we both caught our breath and then he untied the cord holding the bit of black silk to his face and let it all fall to the floor. I saw his face for the first time, free from obstruction, saw that Ciel did in fact have two eyes as the right lid fluttered open. I smiled as he returned to my arms, returned to pressing my bare back against the cool wooden door. I could see the entirety of his perfect face, no distractions. Beautiful, sublime creature. All mine in that moment.

Our remaining clothing disappeared and Ciel slipped into the shower. I stepped behind him and he immediately fell back against me, pressing our bodies together, letting the warm water fall onto our skin.

“You feel so incredibly good,” I heard myself say into his little shell of an ear. “I want to eat you alive.”

Ciel made a sound. I could tell without seeing his face that he was smiling. Knowing I could make his perpetually serious face smile was nearly as exciting to me as having his naked body against mine.

I took a moment to remove the plastic bandage from his shoulder and gently washed it with a bit of antibacterial soap that I kept in the shower for just this purpose. Between Bard and I, someone always had a fresh tattoo or injury of some kind to keep clean.

Turning to rinse, Ciel faced me, stepping into me again, his eyelashes catching tiny droplets of water, his face tilted up to look at me, still so serious that if I wasn’t already in the shower with him and I couldn’t feel his half-hard cock on my thigh, I would have questioned what he was thinking. His hands traced the untouched skin of my chest from my throat, across my sternum, my stomach to the line of dark hair leading to my own growing erection. His delicate fingers dipped down and wrapped around me, a light squeeze, teasing me. The barest of touches, more visual than physical, his eyes turned up to meet mine. What came out of my throat was more of a growl than a groan. If he was waiting for a reaction, this was what he wanted. He slowly, carefully, slid down my body until he was on his knees. A pink tongue shot out to taste me. A careful flick, tasting, sensing, teasing. 

I knew he was capable of being rough, I had felt the animal need in him but he wanted me to know he had control when it absolutely served his purpose. And his purpose was to drive me mad with desire. His tongue traced the length of me, a little more aggressive, earning him another growl as my hand caught the shower wall to steady myself. The sound was enough to entice him to take me into his mouth, whole, with a smile on his lips as he did it. My eyes rolled back and my other hand landed on his shoulder.

Seeing myself vanish between his lips, the slight raise of his chin and the eyes rolling up to see me seeing him before they closed and he started to work me. So slowly, so hot that it felt like a fire was lit deep inside me, spreading from my cock to my abdomen, down my legs, making them weak, into my arms, making my hands tremble. His mouth was a tight steady pressure, pulling on me, wrapping me with the velvet of his tongue.

I’m a sucker for aesthetics. The sight of him, hair damp, face flushed, one hand squeezing my thigh, one around the base of my cock, settled on his knees, glancing up to see my face as I looked down, seeing the length of me appearing and vanishing again was enough to make me crumble. It was a brain rush and a body high, my heart jackhammering in my chest, my blood flowing hot and hard. Typically, in sexual situations, I found myself dominant, the top, the one in control. Seeing my conquest on his knees was familiar, though no less sweet for having Ciel be the angelic face ready for me to defile.

It was a physical struggle now. Somehow the situation was too much for my stupid body to handle. Maybe it had been too long since the last time I had sex, or maybe it was the anticipation of thinking about this moment for too long, fixating like a teenager, but it was impossible for me to keep my cool. I could hear the desperate sounds, the moans and the gasping inhalations of breath and I knew they came from me. I knew I was losing all composure and all sense of dignity. The gentleman in me wanted to say something before I came, give him an opportunity to stop or withdraw, but what I did say, my voice growing deep with lust, was something akin to “God-fucking-christ. Fuck!”

My vision swam white for a moment. I felt Ciel gently pull back, having ridden the wave of my orgasm to its jerking and trembling conclusion. I let my head fall back, let the water tap on my chest for a moment as my breath came back to a slower rhythm. It was silent, with just the sound of the water and the feeling of one of Ciel’s hands resting on my thigh, waiting.

“Your tattoo,” I said. My senses started to click back online one at a time. “You should get out of the hot water.” I took hold of the hand on my thigh and helped him to his feet, into a towel, a fresh layer of A&D on his ink to keep it happy and we emerged from the tight confines of the bathroom.

It had been a day of not having my way and of being told what to do. Not things I took well on the best of days, and not something that was about to have a reasonable reaction from me now.

Bard stood leaning against the kitchen table, arms crossed, fresh from work and still in his stinking kitchen clothes. Probably because the bathroom was occupied.

“Well, well, fucking well. I was wondering when you were going to come out. And you have company,” he said taking a long casual drink of beer as he looked us over. Ciel was frozen just behind me, a forest creature caught in the range of a predator.

It didn’t bother me to be caught in a towel, I was fine with my body and never felt particularly naked covered in tattoos, my visual camouflage. Nor did I have any shame in being caught fucking, after all what’s there to be ashamed of? Though, now that I thought of it, Bard perhaps wasn’t aware of my preference in partners. What I did take exception to was the discomfort of my guest or any implication that I had done something wrong.

“Sweetheart, you’re home early,” I said with a smile.

“Not really. The restaurant closed an hour ago. Did you lose track of time in there? Wasting all that water?”

I walked to the kitchen and located my already opened beer. “I was incredibly dirty.”

That earned me a snort from Bard. “You’re Mey-Rin’s friend, aren’t you?” he addressed Ciel, ignoring me.

I wasn’t surprised Bard knew my guest, but I didn’t want to give him too much facetime while Ciel stood in a towel in the hallway.

“Yes, pleasantries, etc. We were just on our way upstairs.”

Ciel gave a furtive glance to the staircase, hoping against all hope he was about to escape from whatever nightmare he was having.

“Up the stairs and to the right. I’ll be right there,” I said. My anxious shadow moved from the space behind me and walked quickly and quietly up the stairs leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. Bard was still giving me an ugly appraisal, one eye kind of squinty as he finished off his beer and set the empty down on the table.

“Not what I was expecting,” he said finally once Ciel was well out of hearing.

“In what way?”

“A few things,” he said. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and rolled it between his fingers, looking at it closely. “I’ve never seen you hook up with anyone before. In all of the years I’ve known you, you haven’t dated or fucked anyone that I’ve ever seen. I was starting to think your gear was busted.”

“All you had to do was ask and I would have shown you my gear. No need to fantasize.”

“Well, I’d have to wonder. Women fall at your feet before I can even ask for a number.”

“Oh please. You have at least three women going at any given time.”

“Not the point.”

“You weren’t expecting a guy to come out of the bathroom,” I said it as a statement.

“Nope,” he admitted and we both laughed at the brutal honesty.

“That alright?” I asked after nearly a minute of solid eye contact as the laughter died out. Not that it would be of any consequence if he said no. I’d have to find another place to crash I suppose. Though, I knew he wouldn’t have a problem beyond whatever mental adjustment he’d have to do to reconcile the image he had of me. Largely, this was why I kept my love life to myself.

“No. I mean. The fuck do I care who you fuck?”

“It’s your house.”

“I’m an asshole but I’m not that caliber of asshole. As long as the kid’s not trouble, the fuck should I care? Quit talking to me in your fucking towel and go get some dick or ass or whatever else it is you want.” He waved me away, dismissing the conversation in its awkward state. It had the feeling of a situation that would settle down given enough time and I left him to take his shower, hearing him grumbling under his breath something about towels and hot water.

A soft bit of light came through the crack of my bedroom door into the dark hallway. My fingers tingled as I pushed the door open. Like a snapshot from my deepest fantasy, Ciel lie on his stomach, head in his arms, body across my bed, naked, a perfect curve from his shoulder down his back to the exquisite swell of his ass. His pale skin looked like spilled milk against my dark bedsheets. I stood in the doorway for just a moment, enjoying the perfection of him, so delicate, almost androgynous, almost doll-like in his design. I really was a visual beast.

Of course, he had fallen asleep. It had been an unexpectedly long day and despite the surge of disappointment, I had to admit I was also exhausted and crawling into bed with him seemed very inviting.

I pulled on a pair of boxers, limiting my temptation by at least a small increment, and settled into bed. I didn’t quite dare to put an arm around him, but I did pull the sheet up over his naked body, protecting it from my view. One soft kiss to his shoulder as he settled in, pulling on the sheet. He made a soft sound at my touch but continued to sleep.

Ah well.

Despite the setbacks, everything was starting to seem almost good. Ciel had proven to be an ideal opponent. Smart, beautiful to look at, ignorantly sexy, and just enough of a pain in the ass that I had to work to have him. Part of my brain, the highly refined cynical part, the part that usually made me walk away, was starting to ask when the other shoe would drop.  

  


	15. You Tear Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He uncovered himself, sliding to the side of the bed and standing. I could see he was, in fact, wearing shorts. Tight, black thin cotton shorts that left very little room to doubt my memory from last night. My face burned red again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my Muse: Our Sunday writing dates have been quite helpful and (usually) relaxing. I am glad to have a writing partner like you to share ideas and to get into mischief with. This chapter has a lot of feelings in it, and not a few of them from the first time we met. The first time you held my hand. <3

My brain taunted me, dared me to panic even as my tired body eased into the comfort of being in bed with this warm body. There was something inherently comforting about the presence of another person in bed. I tried to focus on the feeling, the warm arm around me, the sound of his sleeping breath, but my mind wouldn’t let me have it. Even as I slept it made me think about Jim. My dreaming brain threw me into the worst nightmare of my life.

I was asleep in my own bed in my apartment in Montreal. There was the kind of heavy snowfall that made the night seem so quiet and peaceful and I was in my bed, situated so comfortably in my bed clothes, hibernating, a little fox curled up in the warm dark burrow of my room.

I had moved in with my first boyfriend from university. My first relationship with a boy and I had fallen hard. We both lived off our trust funds, so it was nothing to get an apartment off campus. We had both lost our parents at a young age and we both had a predilection toward dark clothing and moody music. It seemed like we were kindred, so much the same. But Jim liked to drink and he liked to take drugs. He was two years older and dropped out of school before completing his degree. It didn’t matter. I still deferred to him, still saw him as smarter and more worldly than I was.

We had fun nights out with his friends, surviving all levels of intoxication. He was a nightly feature at our local horror pub and was always prepared to make an entrance at every club night, goth night, or concert that was within the range of the metro. I was happier to lurk around the edges, part of the shadows while he took all of the attention.

Predictably, molly was a favorite chemical for him and he would shower me with physical attention when he was high. And I, emotionally starved creature that I was, craved his attention like the light from the sun. I was willing to suffer his neglect and humiliation while he was sober to get his love when he was high.

Living with Jim Macken was like living with a caged animal. Viewing from a distance on the opposite side of the bars, he was beautiful and fascinating with his blond hair and ice-blue eyes. He was the center of attention in any room he walked into and if he wasn’t he made no hesitation in creating a big enough scene to become it. When he was sweet he seemed tame and I wanted nothing more than to have his love and approval.

But that was a rare occurrence and I spent more time recovering from the various hurts he thrust at me with such skill you would have thought he was a swordsman. Our relationship was a sickness defying definition, but I clung to it because it was all I had. I withstood the abuse because it was all I knew.

Every attempt at making new friends and even the times I had tried to leave and pursue other romantic partners had been overshadowed by Jim and the circus of insanity I lived with every day.

At the time it was almost comforting like I was being protected. Loved.

That night had been much the same as any other. Jim had demanded I go out with him and his friends but I wasn’t feeling well and wanted to rest rather than run around in a snow storm. He left with a slamming door and I fell asleep watching a vampire film, something gothic and dramatic while I hibernated.

In the dark early morning, he came crashing home, fucked up on something vile. I woke up to him bursting through the bedroom door and crawling onto the bed. He pulled at my clothes, one ice cold hand clamped over my mouth. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he kissed me and bit at my throat.

As horrified and frightened as I was by the sudden assault, part of me was excited and wanted his rough clawing and pinching, and opened myself up to the violation. It was a habit to give into him, even when he was cruel. I wanted to let him have me but some burst of self-preservation took control and I threw him off me.

Before I could get myself fully untangled from the bed clothes he was on me again, only now instead of sex he was intent on violence.

Jim was a skinny thing, but so was I and he had height and strength on me. He pinned me to the bed, sitting on my hips and holding my arms to my sides with his knees, leaving his hands free to do evil. Rather than undressing me or groping me, he took two fingers and drove them into my right eye.

The pain was a burst of white heat in my skull. All thoughts stopped as I screamed every bit of air from my lungs while he laughed. He laughed as he pushed his digits into my eye socket.

What happened after that was unclear. There was blood on my hands and chest. My bed was sticky with it and my face was an aching mess of fire and pain. Somehow I made it to the living room and had the presence of mind to use the phone to get help. I didn’t dare touch my face or look in a mirror, but I saw horror reflected back at me in the faces of the paramedics when they arrived and found me.

Jim was gone. There was a note pinned to the bathroom wall, just beside the mirror, stuck with a bloody kitchen knife. There were bloody streaks and fingerprints on the walls and on the door knob. A scribbled message on the note read “when you look in the mirror you’ll see that you’re always mine.”

I hadn’t remembered the knife.

It was this dream and the echo of Jim’s menacing laughter that played through my sleeping brain when Sebastian leaned over me and gently touched my shoulder.

I sat upright gasping for breath. “No!” on my lips.

“Ciel, it’s okay,” Sebastian said.

“No,” I said again as I looked around and realized where I was and what had happened. I looked at Sebastian propped up on his elbow watching me from a few inches away, naked torso. A sheet covering us both from the waist down. Good god, I was naked in bed with him. I was in bed with him naked and he was smiling at me. Fuck.

“I think you were having a bad dream,” he said.

“Yeah, I really was. Sorry.”

“Are you alright now?” he asked.

Was I alright? I was slightly to the left of alright. I was in a stranger’s bed. I had a flash of memory from the shower the previous night and felt my face get hot and my dick get hard. What did I do?! I couldn’t remember anything that happened after I came upstairs. Did I just fall asleep?

“I’m okay,” is what I said. Sebastian seemed to be looking at me for more confirmation that I was actually okay. “I don’t usually…” I struggled and settled for “go home with people so soon after meeting them.”

“I don’t usually bring people home,” he responded vaguely. Whatever that meant if anything at all. I didn’t know what was expected of me at that moment but it probably wasn’t what I ended up saying next.

“I think I’m naked.”

“You are,” he confirmed.

“And you…”

“I’m wearing shorts.” He smiled again. “I am a gentleman above all.”

He uncovered himself, sliding to the side of the bed and standing. I could see he was, in fact, wearing shorts. Tight, black thin cotton shorts that left very little room to doubt my memory from last night. My face burned red again.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” I saw his back, just for a moment before he pulled a t-shirt over his head and covered it from my view. A tattoo of a grinning demon, red eyes, and sharp teeth. “Things look different in the light of day,” he said as he left the room.

What was happening?

Sebastian was gone from the room, leaving me there, naked and a bit angry. I weighed my options. I saw where Sebastian had taken a t-shirt from a drawer and I could probably find something – comically large no doubt – to cover myself. Or I could wrap up in the towel again to get to the bathroom to find my clothes. Neither option was great. I had made it as far as sitting on the edge of the bed contemplating the wet towel when Sebastian returned, my clothes in his hand. I watched him for a moment, really tried to see him as he came back to the bed and handed me my things. He truly was handsome with an angular face and a sharp nose, ruddy brown eyes and a large expressive mouth. A mouth that twisted into a sly smile when he looked at me.

My eye patch was neatly laid on top of my clothes. I had forgotten about it entirely. Forgotten that Sebastian had a full view of my ruined face this entire time. He hadn’t said anything.

“Thank you. I suppose I shouldn’t have left my things downstairs,” I said.

“No problem.”

Another bit of silence as Sebastian watched me. I started to feel like he may want to eat me.

“I don’t really know what happens next,” I said finally.

Sebastian laughed, a low predatory sound. “Nothing really. I’m just really enjoying how nervous I can make you.”

My mouth opened to say something in protest but closed again.

“Of course, if you’d like to stay unclothed, I’d be happy to join you.” That fucking smirk again, making self-control a nearly nonexistent concept. It would be so easy to give in, to take whatever he wanted to give me and forget myself in the process.

“Or I can make you breakfast?” he suggested once his previous comment landed untouched by me while I tried to make up my mind. If it upset him or frustrated him in any way, it didn’t show. He politely left the room to let me dress and I joined him in the kitchen where he was already in the process of making what looked like an elaborate meal. My stomach had the realization that I hadn’t eaten since before I left to be tattooed the previous day. And only then because Mey-Rin had nagged me into having a sandwich.

Bard sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee and a newspaper spread out in front of him.

“Coffee?” Sebastian asked, giving me another perplexing smile.

“Tea?” I asked hopefully.

“Of course,” he said. He gestured for me to have a seat at the table and moments later there was a hot mug of tea and a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk were in front of me. Bard took a cigarette from behind his ear and put it in his mouth without lighting it. He glanced over at me as I dumped half the bowl of sugar into my tea with a bit of milk.

“What’s with the eye patch?” he asked.

“Bard,” Sebastian warned from the kitchen.

“I’m just curious. I noticed last night you had it off but your eye was shut.”

“It’s fucked up. I can’t see out of it,” I confirmed.

“Lemme see,” Bard said.

“Bard!” Sebastian barked.

“What? I’m just asking. He can tell me to fuck off if he wants.”

“It’s fine,” I said. I flipped the eye patch up and blinked my eyes a few times letting the milky eye come into view. Bard took in the sight without any squeamishness.

“Huh,” Bard said. “How’d you do that?”

“Baldroy, I’m serious. Shut your fucking mouth.”

Bard shrugged and took his coffee and the unlit cigarette outside. A few minutes later Sebastian set a plate with French toast, fruit, and sausage in front of me. It looked like a restaurant meal, sprinkled with a little powdered sugar and a few sliced strawberries. Maybe he was a chef. Or maybe he just really enjoyed food. It wasn’t something I would ever understand but I did appreciate it.

Sebastian slid into a seat beside me with his own plate of food.

“You don’t have to humor him,” Sebastian said. It took me a moment to realize he meant Bard. “He can be an asshole sometimes but he’s mostly harmless.”

“It’s fine. I’m not ashamed of my eye.”

When I looked back at Sebastian he had already cleared half of his plate. I looked back at my own and took a tentative bite of toast. It was sweet, buttery and absolutely drenched in syrup. My eyes closed as I savored the taste.

“Is it alright?” he asked.

“This is wonderful. Thank you."

Bard came back through the kitchen, giant beast of a dog trailing behind him. “Well, kiddies, I have to go to work. Behave yourselves. Byron, you’re in charge.”

“Have a good day, sweetheart,” Sebastian called only to receive the middle finger in return.

We ate for a few minutes in silence while I pretended to be overly interested in the newspaper that Bard had left behind.

“Would you like me to take you home now?” Sebastian asked. He cleared away our dishes and walked back into the kitchen.

“What are your plans for today? I asked.

Sebastian hummed as he considered my question, swaying slightly with a turn of his hips as he washed up the few dishes left in the sink. He was so tall and graceful despite his size. He was a fighter or a dancer. He was someone with more physical skill and command over his body than I would ever possess. I loved to watch him.

“I’m not used to having a lot of free time,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t mind going to the beach.”

I welcomed another opportunity to take a ride in the car, seated beside this confusing beast of a man. He was both beautiful and terrifying to me as I looked at him, looking at me for a response to what he’d just said. I wasn’t sure what I wanted from him at that moment, but I knew I wasn’t ready to go home. Not just yet.

Sebastian locked up the house and we were off, soon back on the curvy coastal roads, daylight this time, but still blanketed with fog. The sky was gray and the water was only hinted at after the drop of the rocky shoreline. After a time, we pulled to the side of the road, onto a large shoulder meant for taking in the view. Today there was no view, only the gray empty space where the sea was supposed to be. There was the sound of waves meeting the rocks with a bit of force and the strong smell of a storm coming inland.

I sat in the passenger seat, the silence after the car’s engine was cut was so sudden that I laughed. Or maybe it was the tension I perceived had been growing steadily in the car.

“You are so goddamn beautiful,” Sebastian said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Your smile. When you laugh you make my chest tight you’re so beautiful.”

“Oh.”

“I’m still not used to you yet. I’m gonna need a bit more feedback.”

I considered for a moment. What was it he was looking for? What was the appropriate response? In most situations, I found myself not caring and not worrying about giving the right response. If I offended someone or made them feel insecure about the interaction, that was more their problem than mine. This is probably why I’ve been called a brat on more than one occasion, but it served me well enough. Now though, I found myself trying to placate Sebastian, trying to find what to say to assure him of my thoughts and feelings. Which, was considerably hard work when I didn’t even know what I was thinking or feeling.

“Thank you,” I said finally.

“You’ll tell me, yeah? If I make you uncomfortable?”

“I really like you,” I blurted out. “I don’t know what to do about that.” I was beside myself with embarrassment.

“What would you like to do about it?” Sebastian asked. His expression was neutral, but I thought I could see just the barest bit of amusement in his eyes like he was fighting to give me more space to talk before he gave me the relief of knowing how he was feeling about it.

“I…I would like to see you again.”

“You’re seeing me now,” he said. There was definitely a spark of mischief there, but he still wouldn’t let me off.

“After today, when we both go our own ways and go back to our lives, I don’t want that to be the end of it,” I said finally, my hands flexing on the tops of my thighs, unable to settle.

He reached out, placing one of his giant hands on top of mine. It was warm and solid and it made my stomach bottom out like I was just starting the ascent of a roller coaster. His fingers found their way through mine, weaving together, a perfect fit.  

After a long, quiet moment, the car started up again and we pulled onto the road. It was a short ride back to town, giving Sebastian a few directions once I figured out where we were, guiding him to my apartment. He pulled to the curb outside of my building but left the car running. We sat quietly for another moment before I struggled to get another sentence out, fearing my opportunity was about to slip away.

“What do we do now?”  

“We could have dinner tomorrow. I think that would be a good place to start,” Sebastian said.

I nodded, still feeling like I had overstepped somehow. I reached for the door handle, but Sebastian still held my other hand and gave it a squeeze before I could pull away.

“I really like you,” he said. We held eyes for a long pause, my face turning several shades of crimson before Sebastian leaned over to kiss me.

Why had I waited until now to kiss him again? I had ample opportunity. Time alone, quiet, looking at each other and him smiling and me probably scowling through my confusion. I had woken up in his bed naked. I waited until now to find my lips on his. It was like taking a hit of pure oxygen. My entire body sang at the nearness of him, the warmth of his mouth and the gentle insistence of his hand as it squeezed mine. I could feel the restraint in him. It was far too soon when he pulled away, only to come back for one more quick brush of his lips against mine before he was finally through.

I guess I leave now. Get out of this ostentatious car and walk myself up to my apartment.

“Let me know when you get out of work tomorrow and I’ll pick you up,” he said.

I nodded. Turned and walked up the steps of my building. He waited until I was inside before continuing down the street and out of my sight.

What had I gotten myself into?


	16. Kool Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought about my own motivations and my reasoning for asking Ciel to dinner. Yes, I did want to get him into bed, but after the rocky time we had yesterday, I realized it was going to be a bit of a long game I had to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my patient bride. I wrote this looking forward to the next time I can take you for an actual date with dinner and a show. New York perhaps? Maybe we can find our own "weird little corner of Brooklyn."

“A date you mean?” Bard asked.

Occasionally Bard and I would meet up outside work. His restaurant was only a few doors down from the shop. We seemed to be on a similar smoke schedule, or maybe we both just hated sitting still for too long before needing to get outside. When he saw me he wandered over to shoot the shit for a few minutes. Aside from these brief conversations, we could go days without seeing each other at home when our schedules were opposite.

“I was thinking dinner and I have some tickets to the circus that a client gave me.”

“Yeah. Pretty sure that’s a date,” Bard confirmed rubbing the back of his neck with a greasy hand. His white chef’s coat was already stained to hell only two hours into his shift. I tried to imagine what it would be like if I were so messy at my job. Covered in ink and blood, maybe a few gobs of ointment. Not that much would show on a black t-shirt and jeans. Unsanitary nonetheless.

“The thing you want to do is decide what you want out of this date.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. My bullshit meter was already tipping at a high reading, but somehow I still had to know what he was talking about.

“Well, usually I’m trying to get the girl into bed, but you guys already skipped ahead to that. Actually, I’m not sure what your goal will be. Why are you doing this?”

“To get to know him better?” I posed it as a question. At this point, I was starting to doubt myself in the face of such brazen masculinity.

“Yeah, that makes sense. Just a different order. It’s different because you’re both guys, fewer obstacles to get through before you can, you know…” he hesitated.

“No, go on. I’m interested to hear your take on gay dating.”

“Guys always want to fuck,” Bard explained. “So there’s less talking and feelings and shit.”

I nodded at his wisdom. “Yes, you’d think so, but alas here we are.”

“You can’t tell me you didn’t get laid. I heard some shit I can never unhear.”

“Yeah, well, I could stand to get to know him better. He’s very good at keeping things to himself.”

“Like what caused the eye thing,” Bard said flapping a greasy hand vaguely around his face.

“For fuck’s sake. Would you give it up? People get injured. Just because you see something doesn’t entitle you to know what it is or how it happened. Didn’t the wolves that raised you teach you any manners?”

“I think you just answered your own question, Seb.”

“If you could just be cool around him next time, that’d be great.”

“Yeah, next time. I’ll clear off the kitchen table in case you animals can’t make it upstairs again.”

“That’s all I ask. Thank you.”

“I gotta get back,” he said pushing away from the building and flicking his cigarette into the gutter. “Let me know how it goes.”

Despite his gruff exterior and some of the stupid shit that came out of his mouth, he was a genuinely good guy. I didn’t doubt if I neglected to tell him how the - let’s call it a date - went, he would ask me later.

I thought about my own motivations and my reasoning for asking Ciel to dinner. Yes, I did want to get him into bed, but after the rocky time we had yesterday, I realized it was going to be a bit of a long game I had to play. Not that I minded, but it was a bit difficult to switch back to careful pursuit after he had pulled me into that shower and made me come so hard my roommate would probably need therapy from the fallout.

I ran a hand through my hair, squeezing my aching head. First, I needed to get through this afternoon and successfully cut out at 5. Assuming Ciel actually texted me. I wouldn’t hold out hope for a phone call, he was far too reserved to call. The longest conversation we had was while I tattooed him. It came so easily and comfortably. He told me a little about his job and his apartment here. His first place that was his alone. I had been somewhat surprised to see the neighborhood full of brownstones when I dropped him off. Only somewhat, as he obviously had the bearing of a kid who had a bit of money. Not that he was a rich brat, but his Burberry sneakers said he was a bit of a rich brat.

He just didn’t seem like a brat. The insecurity threw me and I had a feeling it was in direct response to me. Something about me made him nervous and obviously conflicted. After that strange admission of feeling, I wasn’t sure what to think.

One thing was certain, someone had done a number on this kid. I needed to be sure I could live up to his expectation before we got too far.

I guess that was my goal. 

Am I what you want, Ciel?

And are you what I need? Whatever the fuck that was.

Back in the shop, I had enough time to take one more client before I had to wrap it up. I had expressed my need to Claude to leave by 5 as soon as I saw him that morning. He was surprised to see me in before him and had no room to argue with the request. Monday night was not a slamming night in the shop. He wouldn’t miss me.

I started to set up my station while Claude finished taking paperwork from my client. He filed the consent form and popped into the back room to make a stencil of the design I had already drawn up.

“Oh, Sebastian,” he said almost casually. “We’ve received an invite to the Empire State convention. Are you free that weekend? It would be a good opportunity for the both of us.”

“Yeah, I can probably make it work. Can you send me the dates so I can add it to my calendar when my hands aren’t scrubbed for surgery?” I asked wiggling my digits in his direction.

He nodded and returned to his corner of the shop. 

Looking at the stencil he had so subtly tossed down on my tray, I remembered I was about to put a very cartoonish vampire bat riding a black unicorn onto my client. New school. Not my favorite style, but I could manage just about any style if I put my mind to it. Plus it gave me an opportunity to dig all of the obscure bright colors from the back of my cabinet.

The client was a girl in her early 20s, already covered in a variety of colorful tattoos. “This is to fill my tattoo bingo card,” she explained. “The Crypt in New York was closed so I came here instead.”

“You tried to make an appointment at the Crypt?” I asked. She wasn’t the typical clientele, nor did the Undertaker do new school work.

“I never got an email back!” she complained.

I nodded my understanding while keeping my general confusion to myself.

“Why did you want to go there?” I had to ask finally when my curiosity got the best of me.

“Why?” she asked incredulously. “The place is legendary. I’d have infinite bragging rights for life.”

“And this?” I asked gesturing to the tattoo I had started to apply to her skin.

“This is the next best thing. You’re his only apprentice, right?”

“As far as I know,” I confirmed.

“That’s so cool! What was he like?”

“He was and still is a pretty weird dude. Why the fascination with Undertaker?”

“His tattoos are amazing! And it’s super rare to find anyone with any of his work.”

At that comment, I heard Claude snort. Both of us, of course, had several Undertaker tattoos. He was certainly good, but so were a lot of artists. I suspected he had a mythology built around him that seemed to grow as years passed.

“Is he still alive?” the girl asked after she had been quiet for a few minutes.

“Undertaker? As much as he ever was, I suppose.”

“I mean, someone said the Crypt is closed up now.”

“Yeah?”

“I heard the same,” Claude interjected.

I shrugged and carried on with my work, making a mental note to find out what was actually going on when I wasn’t in front of a client. It wouldn’t surprise me to know that Undertaker had vanished for a while. He did that sometimes. But I did wonder if the shop had closed for good. I had a chilling thought that Lau had done something to drive him away from that weird little corner of Brooklyn. Or that his mental state had declined after I had left and he just wasn’t able to keep it together enough to work. The real kicker was that I had no direct way to get in touch with him. After my client left and the shop was quiet for a moment, I wandered over to Claude’s side of the room.

“Did you hear anything about the shop closing?” I asked.

“We’ve been getting a lot of calls for you. We should probably talk about scheduling.”

“So, you think it’s true?”

“It seems likely,” he said and then turned back to his computer screen. “Do you have any way to contact him? If you can confirm he’s done tattooing that would be a huge selling point for you.”

“You know I don’t really care about that.” I waved him off and started back to my station to break it down for the day.

“Your ego does though. I know you. Sebastian Michaelis. You’re more like me than either of us cares to admit. We’re already getting an increase in calls and emails looking for appointments. If you can confirm, please let me know.”

“This is why you want to do the convention, isn’t it?”

“It’s a contributing factor certainly,” he admitted. 

“You’re a crafty fucker, Claude. That’s why we actually work well together.”

“And if you manage to maintain your professionalism, we’ll continue to do so.”

“You still want to fuck me, don’t you?” I threw him a smile over my shoulder only to receive a soul-destroying glare.

“I’m sending your schedule to your phone. Just add any personal appointments to avoid double booking.”

“Please schedule some one-on-one time for us. And remember I like to cuddle after. Don’t shortchange me.”

“You are insufferable.”

“And you’re adorable.”

The Crypt’s phone landed on voicemail each and every time I tried to call. My own voice alerted me that the shop was shut but I could leave a message. Messages no one was checking since I wasn’t there.

I wracked my brain trying to think of a way to contact someone in Brooklyn. I didn’t keep many friends and not many people there cared to hear from me. My phone held few non-industry contacts as I scrolled through, deftly skipping over Will’s name which I somehow still hadn’t deleted. I did recognize one name saved under “Curiosities Dealer” - Hannah Anafellos. I vaguely remembered an interaction with the woman. She was an antiquities dealer, but not the typical stuff, really weird shit. The kind of shit Undertaker collected.

There was one message thread still on my phone from more than a year ago. I took a chance and sent a message. 

_ “Is this still Hannah?” _

A few minutes went by without a reply and I began to assume I had the wrong number. What would I say anyway?  _ Hey, remember that weird fucker you sold a mummy to? Any idea if he’s still alive? _

_ “Yes, this is Hannah at Laevateinn.” _

_ “This is Sebastian, I work at the Crypt.” _

_ “Yes, I know you.” _

_ “This is a weird question, but I’m not in Brooklyn and I’m trying to get ahold of Undertaker.” _

_ “Not an easy man to find. May I call you?” _

A moment later my phone rang and I stepped into the tiny backroom wedging myself next to our workhorse of a printer and the overflow boxes of shop supplies.

“You contacting me is quite fortuitous. I think we can help each other,” she said. No pleasantries, no time to get a bearing on the conversation, just a British-accented, husky female voice slithering into my ear. As soon as I heard her, I remembered her well. Long gray hair, a poised perfection of a woman, startling eyes that probably destroyed men who dared to engage her attention.

“Is that right?” 

“Years ago I had a brief glance at his collection.”

“At the shop?” I asked. 

“At his flat. The shop is nothing. He keeps the best items for himself.”

Only a handful of times had I been admitted to the cave-like apartment of my mentor. It was stuffed into the basement of a building adjacent to the shop. From what I remember it was quite dark, dusty and filled with dead things. A glass cabinet with a number of human skulls, taxidermy animals, a fair number of which were crows and ravens looming from the shadowy corners of the ceiling, questionable vials and jars with things inside I didn’t want to look closer at. He also had a large collection of books and odd artifacts. I had no idea what could possibly hold value for anyone but the fiend himself. 

“Can you see if he’s at the shop? Just do a quick drive by and tell me if he’s around?”

“Of course,” she said leaving a pregnant pause as she waited for me to offer a favor in return.

“I’m going to be in town in a few weeks, but I’d like to know what I’m walking into. You appreciate that he’s a bit of an unusual guy. I just want to know if he’s still working or if he needs something.”

“Or if he’s dead in his flat,” she said with an empty tone.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “If you can do that and give me a call back I’ll see what I can do about getting you into his apartment to look around.”

“You have a deal, Mr. Michaelis,” she said making my skin crawl. She really did remember me. “I will be in touch.” She disconnected the call.

I could sense Claude expectantly waiting for me to provide some sort of result to the call for his own curiosity but I ignored him and gathered my coat and bag and headed to the door.

“Night,” I called over my shoulder.

***

The idea that I could possibly be nervous was such a foreign concept to me that I didn't recognize the itchy way I kept checking my phone until a little message bubble with Ciel’s name popped up on my screen.

_ “Hello. I’m home from work,”  _ it said.

It was my turn now. What did I want to say? What was the plan? Keep it together, man. You have a plan and a good one at that.

_ “I’ll pick you up at 6” _

It was his turn to be nervous now as I made my way home to prepare.

Ciel had a penchant for clothes. He was well dressed, a bit of fastidious dresser even when in a t-shirt and jeans. I had already rejected the idea that I could just rock up in the clothes I had worked in all day.

I splashed some water on my face. With much care and deliberate action, I put on one of the few dress shirts I owned, this one white, and a fresh pair of jeans, tighter jeans that hung a bit lower on my hips. After a moment of debate, I pulled out a thin black necktie and threaded it through my collar. My leather jacket and boots completed the effort. I was grateful for the cooler weather and the nearly frosty sharpness to the air as I climbed back into my car. The soft leather of my jacket felt nicely heavy and familiar, infused with the scent of 100 nights of cologne - mine and others - clove cigarettes, whiskey and sweat mingling with the smell of the leather itself. 

I found a parking space in front of Ciel’s building and walked up the high marble stairs to the imposing door. I pondered the buttons for a moment and then pushed the one with Phantomhive scrolled beneath it in neat black lettering.

Ciel’s voice came through the little box. “I’ll be right down.”

I turned and looked out over the street. It was a beautiful, quiet place, rows of townhouses and smaller apartment buildings, all brownstone or brick. Immaculately kept, historically accurate, and not a speck of trash in sight. A lot of this town was like that, but this neighborhood, in particular, seemed to be a concentrated version of it. Not like the suburban refuge where Bard made his home.

The last bits of daylight were leaking away through the horizon, splashes of autumn shades mingled with the darkening blue of the sky. I felt myself slip into a calm, easy state as twilight hit. My shoulders dropped as the tension leaked from my muscles. I leaned my hip against the railing and exhaled.  

The door opened and a small body joined mine on the steps. His face was slightly flushed, his breath a little heavy from rushing down the stairs. He was absolutely perfect.

Time to start this date.


	17. Wolf Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a brief moment where we sat in the close silence of the car, I heard the soft sound of his breath, the creak of his leather jacket and the clink of keys, felt the shift in the air as he turned toward me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian, in this incarnation, is largely inspired by my wife. While she is in no way a meathead, nor does she have a Brooklyn accent (she has a quite soft and lovely English accent) she is still the charming devil who swayed me despite my best efforts to be a stubborn fool. It's also true that this incarnation of Ciel has more than a lot of me in him. In a way, this is our love story in bits and pieces of actual dialogue and feelings. However, I know she's still excited to see what happens. (Still waiting on her to get that Mustang though.) <3

The black monster of a car announced itself before it even hit my street. The sound was loud, disruptive and crass. My stupid heart jumped up in my ribcage and flapped around like an excited bird when I heard it. Slowly it grumbled and rolled to a stop in front of my building, the engine cut and the silence dropped back on the street. From my window, I watched as the tall figure unfolded from the car and stood, black leather and mirrored shades looking just like my very own Sisters of Mercy wet dream. A jingle of keys and he skipped up the stairs and rang my doorbell. As if I didn’t realize he was there.

"I’ll be right down,” I clicked the intercom button and spoke.

Sebastian turned on the step to look out over the street. Or maybe he was admiring his car.

I took a moment to calm my pulse and glance at myself in the mirror to do a final sweep of my appearance. Clothes appropriately casual for an afternoon date, but also tidy and expensive enough to show I was serious. Though, I rarely left the house in anything that left me feeling underdressed. The only possible exception was going to the goth club, but even then I had my own standards. A band shirt was what it was, a t-shirt, though when I had an inclination, sometimes I sought out my favorite bands and designs from vintage shops. Having a Joy Division shirt was fine, but having the Unknown Pleasures shirt from the 80s was better. Even if only I knew it. This probably made me a horrible snob, but to some extent, elitism was part and parcel to the goth ideology. Nothing in my closet came without considerable thought. Blame my aunt and her material nature, but in my memory, my parents were the same. My father was a very dapper dresser.

I took the stairs quickly enough that my heart was beating fast again when I turned the handle and joined Sebastian on the steps.

He met me with a roguish smile. I noticed he wasn’t in all black for the first time. A crisp white shirt, bisected with a slim black tie was under his leather jacket, French tucked so I could see the belt that I had previously wrapped my hand around to pull him to me in the tattoo shop. He said nothing but gestured to let me go down the steps first. I sensed a momentary question mark above his head as he debated how close to get to me. Was it okay to touch me? Was it okay to lean in for a kiss in greeting? Was he questioning me or just the act of being gay in public? I wondered how cautious he was as a person. It was not a quality I had even considered for him given his tattooed appearance and brash manner. Fear and caution didn’t seem to be matching traits. But I didn’t really know him aside from that strange first night.

 _You spent the night with him,_ I reminded myself with a shiver that was part excitement and part terror. Of course, nothing really happened, but it would have if I hadn’t fallen so dead asleep after that shower.

  “Let’s go for a little drive,” Sebastian said. He stooped to open the door for me and then walked around to climb into the driver’s seat. There was a brief moment where we sat in the close silence of the car, I heard the soft sound of his breath, the creak of his leather jacket and the clink of keys, felt the shift in the air as he turned toward me.

“How do you feel about Indian food?” he asked.

“I like it alright.”

Another smile that I could feel in the pit of my stomach. I imagined his face closer to my own. I imagined it in the dark, hovering above me, that smile curving those lips, exposing sharp white teeth, dark eyes narrowing knowing that he had me captured. I struggled to orient myself in my feelings. My body was betraying the cool person my mind thought I ought to be.

“How was your day?” I asked. We were safely out of my neighborhood and well and truly on an actual date.

“My day was alright. Mostly drawing and jabbing people with needles,” he smiled. “I was looking forward to this part of my day actually.”

My face flushed again. “Me too,” I said.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“It sounds like your day was more interesting than mine.”

“You don’t like your job?”

“Not really.”

“I don’t think I would do well in an office,” he said.

The thought of Sebastian sitting in a cubical, answering the phone with his thick Brooklyn accent and standing by the coffee machine, sleeves rolled up with tattoos on his arms, scandalizing the other office dwellers made me laugh out loud.

“What?” he asked, amused.

“Nothing. I was just thinking about how conservative this office is.”

“If only they knew who you were,” he said with a smile.

“What does that mean?” I asked. There wasn’t any malice in his statement so I was genuinely curious.

“They can’t appreciate the whole of you. Smart, dark, a bit alternative, interesting,” he licked his lips, “tattooed.”

“Gay,” I suggested.

“Sure,” he admitted.

“Riding around in this car with someone like you,” I finished.

“Yeah.” Sebastian seemed to ponder that for a moment. There was a dip in the conversation where I watched his profile as he looked ahead out the windscreen, his hands flexing and adjusting with some amount of agitation on the smooth wooden steering wheel.

Why am I doing this? What was it about this man that made me take leave of my senses? After what happened to me in Montreal there was no conceivable reason to enter into a relationship of any kind.

I was fine alone, good even. Safe, certainly.

Sebastian was not safe. Sebastian was an unknown. He was chaotic and questionable and suspiciously interested in me despite my best efforts to act like a complete imbecile at every turn when he was near me. But he was also devastatingly hot. I didn’t tire of looking at him or hearing his awful accented voice. Now I looked forward to both. Had thought of hardly anything but him for the entire day.

Maybe I hadn’t suffered enough for one lifetime. But what if he was genuine? When would it be too late to know?

“What sort of guy do you suppose I am?” he asked.

It threw me for just a moment as I considered that he had somehow just known what I was thinking, that I was wondering just what sort of man he was. But of course, this was the logical progression to this conversation.

“I’d like to find out,” I said quietly.

I resolved to let myself ease into the experience the best I was able. Now that I was already here I would see it through and see what happened.

Cautiously optimistic. Sure, that sounds exactly like me.

Fuck my life.

“Though I’m still a bit embarrassed at…” I paused as I tried to pin down my actual embarrassment. That I went home with him already? That I sucked his dick in the shower? That I admitted some of my actual feelings? Yeah, probably that one. “...at my behavior.”

“People are messy, Ciel. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I was in a bad relationship. I don’t want to repeat any mistakes,” I admitted after a few silent moments of watching him.

“I figured.” He spared a moment to look at me directly, the mirrored glasses obscuring his eyes and hiding much of his actual expression from me. “I’m a pretty easy guy to talk to. I hope I don’t intimidate you too much to ask me anything you want to.”

Intimidate me? I stuffed down the urge to hyperventilate and replied.

“I hope to be the same,” I said. “Though you’ve said on a few occasions now that you enjoy seeing me flustered.”

He laughed a small growl of a laugh. “I said I enjoy being able to fluster you. There’s a difference.”

If this was bait, I swam over to take it. “Why’s that? Why do you enjoy flustering me?”

“Your pale face turns quite red,” he said smiling wide enough to see his teeth. I was reminded again of a predator and had an uncomfortable urge to poke the beast.

“What else?”

“Your mouth has this obstinate little twist when I tease you.”

“Hmph.”

“Just like that.”

“You have a bit of a sadistic side.”

“It’s more than a bit,” he admitted. He shifted down to a slower speed, leaving his hand resting on the gear shift. We took an exit for a town I didn’t recognize and sped off again down another long stretch of road lined with tall pine trees. I watched the muscles in his forearm flex as his hand gripped and released the knob. The position was just a pause in the space between us. In another heartbeat, his hand slid from the knob to the leather of the seat, then onto my thigh, fingers light and testing, then a bit more firm once I didn’t move to stop him. I took in a breath, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. At once the rush of thoughts and emotion I had been somewhat keeping at bay hit me like a blow to the stomach. A growing tingling in my groin let me know my body was happy to have him touching me. He said nothing, just touched, moving his fingers in testing, teasing circles, moving closer to my inner thigh and then away again. I let my fingertips slide up the length of his forearm and across the top of his hand, mirroring the light movements he made.

“You’re the kind of person who’s okay with a little quiet,” he observed.

“Sorry,” I said realizing I had gone quiet for too long, lost in my own thoughts and the sensation of having his hand on me.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind. A lot of people talk too much.”

“They do.”

We drove through a small beach town, drowsy and empty this late in the season, only a few teenagers still hanging onto the idea of summer walking around with laughter and sweatshirts over this shorts and flip-flop sandals. Our destination was a small Indian restaurant, a bright little beacon in the dark of an otherwise deserted street. A painted wooden sign with the name _Raja Kadar_ hung above a neon open sign. There were two other cars in the parking lot. Sebastian withdrew his hand from my leg and shut off the car. The absence of both his touch and the engine noise was like a vacuum sucking me into the gravity of my bucket seat.

Before we could get completely free of the car and walk the few paces to the door, the door flung open and an aubergine-haired young man lept from the step toward Sebastian. The man wore loose tan trousers, a loud teal Versace button-up with gold filigree print, his bare feet were in a pair of velvet loafers and he was dripping with gold jewelry, bangles on his wrists, chains around his neck, and large earrings framing his face.

“Hello, friend! I thought I heard your car. I am so glad to see you again.”

Sebastian met the man with a hug. “Nice to see you, Soma.”

“Who is our new friend?” the overly friendly man asked already moving to pull me into a hug.

“I don’t really...okay. Alright,” I said as I submitted to the invasion of my personal space.

“Soma, this is Ciel. Ciel, this is my friend, Soma.”

“Welcome both! Please come inside and Agni will bring you food. I hope you are both very hungry.”

Soma returned inside the restaurant and Sebastian gestured for me to follow. I watched as Soma rushed to an empty table and started to pull out seats while he called the staff in Hindi. In mere seconds we were sitting with glasses of ice water in our hands.

“You are family now. Please enjoy and relax,” Soma said. He vanished in a swirl of loud designer finery back toward the kitchen.

“A friend of yours?” I asked.

“I’ve been working on his chef for a while. I promised I would come to the restaurant sometime. This seemed like a good opportunity.”

“You seem to know a lot of people for someone who recently got into town.”

“People tend to remember me,” he said and I felt my face get warm. I certainly remembered him just after seeing him in the dark at the club. He was hard to overlook, his face was handsome enough, I guess, but there was something in the way he looked people. Some sort of look in his eyes that hit me right in the gut every single time. It was a look like he saw me, not only how I looked, but saw what I was. It made me feel deliciously exposed and vulnerable. His eyes, his strange red eyes, made his face extraordinary in the same way his manner and his ease in his own skin made his body so goddamn hot. Would I have looked twice if he had been any different or was it the strange alchemical combination that simply did it for me?  

Was it only me who saw it or did he have this effect on others? He certainly was charming. That went a long way, I suppose. I wondered what the likelihood was that he had a string of other men. Or women? A string of other people waiting for his attention in the way I knew I wanted it.

He said I could talk to him. Maybe I would ask.

A lovely woman in a simple black dress, long dark hair pulled back from her face, set two cocktails down on our table with a smile. I took a tentative sip of the sweet drink complete with its umbrella and cherry. Bliss. Sugar and alcohol to help settle my nerves. Another moment and the same woman brought a tray of naan and condiments before she left again without a word.

“This is a strange experience,” I said.

“Soma is an extremely friendly guy. I don’t think he was exaggerating about us being family now,” Sebastian commented as more food started to arrive at our table. I had no idea what I was looking at but it all smelled fantastic.

“Aren’t you going to try your drink?” I asked already having drunk half of mine.

“Nope. I don’t drink when I have my car.”

“Oh.” I thought for a moment. “Is that why we went back to your place on Saturday?”

He smiled and watched me for a moment. “Not the only reason.”

I knew my face was red and was more than glad for the distraction when more people came over to our table. This time Soma was joined by a very tall Indian man in a chef’s jacket and green slacks. His hair was short and purely white, though he didn’t seem much older than Soma. He wore a white bandana around his forehead to catch his sweat in the hot kitchen.

“Agni, how are you, man?” Sebastian stood and embraced the chef.

“Sebastian, it is good to see you, friend. I am so happy to cook for you tonight. Please, you and your friend should relax and allow Mina to bring you anything you require.” The tall man gestured to the silent woman who was now refreshing the water glasses for a nearby table. Soma nodded in agreement in a way that made it nearly impossible to avoid smiling. A fact that wasn’t lost to him.

“Your friend is too serious, but there is his smile! It is a good smile. Sebastian, you must work on making him smile more.”

“I intend to,” Sebastian said.

Soma clasped Sebastian on the shoulder before he and Agni left us to our table again.

“How do you intend to make me smile?” I asked, fully sure that I let my natural dour expression settle into my features. He smirked, knowing exactly how difficult I meant to be. It was really only fair to let him know what he was in for.

He slid his untouched drink over to my side of the table. “I have many ways, Ciel.”

God, he was such a charming devil. I couldn’t help but like him even when I knew he was up to something. Seducing me. Trying to wear down my many defenses. But looking at him now, seeing the way he looked at me, I easily remembered how good he felt. Kissing him, touching his muscular body, feeling the whole of him pressed against me, it was all so very good. Was I weak for wanting that again?

Stupid maybe. I looked at the second drink and tried to gauge how I felt with one in me already. Two was going to be my limit. Even as I began to feel more comfortable I realized that I needed to be careful. I was determined to end this evening home, by myself, sober and unembarrassed, though as the dinner progressed I could feel my resolution faltering.

There was a bit of an argument with Soma as Sebastian attempted to pay for our dinner and he settled with giving an overly generous tip to Mina, who still hadn’t said more than “thank you” to us the entire evening. I was pleasantly full and more than a little buzzed as we went back to the car. I looked at my phone and sadly realized that it was probably time to go home.

“What’s wrong?” Sebastian asked. He backed out of the tiny lot and started back through the quiet town again toward the highway. The teenagers were gone, the streets were entirely dark and empty. No one seemed to stay awake in this town.

“I had a really nice time,” I said, glumly.

He laughed. “And that’s bumming you out?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s really going to put a damper on things when we get to our next destination.”

“We’re not going home?” I asked.

“Not unless you really want to. I have tickets to a show.”

I was confused for a minute but realized that he was planning to extend our date for a bit longer. We were going to a show. I didn’t even care what sort of show it was, the idea of being out with Sebastian, having more time before I went home to my empty apartment was exactly what I wanted at that moment.

“Are you smiling?” he asked. “It’s too dark to tell, but I think I made you smile.”

“Where are we going?” I asked dodging the question.

“To the circus."

  
  



End file.
